An Ivy Branch
by kendall
Summary: Following both Life's a Bet and Transcendenec, Ivy realizes her comfortable life is soon to be interrupted as the newsies grow up


sigh I couldn't help it. So here it is: the third (and, most likely, last) installment of the series  
  
Ivy Higgins thought to herself as she sipped her cup of tea and gazed out at the passing street. She couldn't help but smile, feeling a warm breeze sweep down the sidewalk where she was drinking a mid-morning cup of tea. A waiter walked past her table and asked if everything was all right.  
  
"Yes," Ivy said. "Everything's wonderful." And it really was. In a little over a month she would be celebrating her and her husband's six-month anniversary. Aside from that, Ivy had found herself in the lap of luxury for the first time in her life. It was her new husband, Racetrack, whom she had to thank for it. His successful career as a horse trainer led his horses to win national championships. And while Ivy was far from rich, the young couple was far from the kind of trouble most kids their age were in.  
  
Ivy smiled again, in spite of herself, relishing in the comfort she got from being able to sit at a fine café and drink hot tea and watch the rush of New York play before her eyes.  
  
A boy, two boys in fact, were shrieking headlines at the top of their lungs. Ivy watched the two newsies battle for control over the street corner where they were selling. Ivy recognized one and called him over.  
  
"Boots!" she said.  
  
Surprised, the boy turned to see who could be shouting for him from such a respectable-looking restaurant. He walked over warily before breaking into a grin.  
  
"Green!" he exclaimed, using the nickname Ivy used to have. He motioned toward his papers. "Want one?"  
  
"Yes please," Ivy said, extending one penny towards him.  
  
He handed her the top paper, collected his penny, and tipped his cap at her. "Tell Race I say hello," he told her.  
  
"I will," Ivy promised and said good-bye. She glanced over the paper. Finding nothing of interest on the front page, she flipped through the paper and reached for her cup of tea.  
  
"Oh."  
  
Ivy dropped her teacup. With a slight tinkle, the delicate china smashed into pieces.  
  
"Are you all right, miss?" Two waiters and the manager had come over to inspect what had happened. They looked cautiously at Ivy's white face and the broken china.  
  
"Oh, yes," Ivy said after a minute, shaking herself as she rose from the table. She set down the paper slowly and saw, for the first time, the cup. "I'm terribly sorry. I'll pay for it."  
  
Something in the hazy, slow tone of her voice made the manager think twice. He reached for her hand to steady her and was surprised to find it was cold and clammy.  
  
"Please, miss," he assured her. "No need to worry. I'll have a cab called for you." He motioned to one of the young men behind him, who rushed out into the street, looking for a cabby.  
  
Ivy gripped the paper suddenly. "I must go immediately," she told the manager. She fished into her purse for some bills. "Here, I think this should cover the teacup." She pushed the money into the manager's hand and walked unsteadily towards the cab that had been called for her.  
  
"Where you headed, miss?" the driver asked, leaning backwards on the seat to watch her stumble into his cab.  
  
Ivy gripped the paper even tighter. "The State Penitentiary, please."  
  
Cool and quiet, the sun rose over New York City. Racetrack Higgins was among the many that got the see this sight, only he appreciated it that much more as he saw it from the back of a beautiful horse. Race was once of the finest horse trainers in New York, and he loved every second of his job. It hadn't taken too long for the 19-year-old to earn a name in his business, and from his humble beginnings, he rose quickly through the horse world.  
  
He now trained three horses, two thoroughbreds, sired from winners of all the best races. The third was a different breed, Akhal-Teke, and its shy beauty always made Race smile. She was the horse he was riding now. Her show name was Seventeen Against the Dealer, but her stable name was Sabe. Race felt a strange affinity to this horse, although it didn't just have to do with her name. Since he began training her, Race studied up on this strange breed. The books told little about what made her coat shine with a golden sheen over the silver hairs. And it hardly mentioned why Sabe, different from the other horses, possessed such large almond eyes. However it did stress that Akhal-Tekes were known for bonding closely with their human counterparts, and Race couldn't doubt it. Never stubborn, always willing, Sabe was by far his favorite.  
  
"C'mon Sabe," he urged her. "We have to get to work." The horse whined in response to Race's kick and flowed into a gallop. What Race could never get over was her endurance. He could run her for hours, take out another horse, and come back to find her pawing to be let out of her stall. The other two horses, Tappi and Coal, were fine racers, but Sabe was a champion.  
  
It wasn't long before the sun rose higher and Race found that the track he had previously been alone at was filled with dozens of other trainers. Carefully, Race rode up to where the others were gathering.  
  
"Hey," he called to the nearest. "What's goin' on?"  
  
He was met with angry eyes and a sharp response: "Jeez, get off that horse! Don't you know we're striking?"  
  
Striking. The words brought back memories of a summer two years ago. Obediently, Race slid off Sabe's saddle and onto the dusty dirt of the track.  
  
"When did this happen?" he asked.  
  
"This mornin'. They," he meant the owners of the track, "want to cut down stabling so they save some more money. Fine idea, except that it means half the horses are going to be left in the dust and half the trainers and the jockeys will be sent packing."  
  
Another face turned to Race. "But don't worry kid. All three of your miracle horses have homes. So you're just fine. But I'd suggest getting Sabe back into her stall. Dunno what'll happen if she's out in this mob."  
  
As he said the words, Race thought it was a little premature to call it a mob, but quickly he changed his mind. Nearly every employee was there, including ticket takers and food vendors. Less horses meant less crowds, and everyone would be hit badly. Well, except Race. By asking around carefully he found out that besides him, the only trainer that wasn't losing a horse was the one who trained Sabe, Tappi, and Coal's only rivals. And Robert Sharma only trained two horses and had a long-standing relationship with the track. Race had started one year ago, and he barely knew his employers.  
  
He carefully and calmly kept Sabe's head down as he led her through an ever- thickening crowd. He finally reached her stall and as he passed Coal's, he felt the horse nudge his cap a little.  
  
"Not today Coal," he told it. "I don't think I'll be taking you out for a while." The thought made him a little sick to his stomach. Horses were his life. It wasn't just the money, although it did help, Race never felt more at home than when he was at the stables. He didn't know what would happen if he went on strike.  
  
More thoughts hit him. He didn't have to go on strike. He could still work here just fine. But then he'd be, and he hated even thinking it, he'd be a scab. A scab. It was unthinkable. And he didn't even have a decent excuse.  
  
Race turned around as he felt a hand on his shoulder.  
  
"Hey, Mr. Brimstone hisself wants ta see you." The man leered down at Race, who swallowed nervously and tried to hide the look of confusion on his face.  
  
"Who?" he asked.  
  
"Mr. Brianstone, the guy that owns some a this dump."  
  
Oh, Race thought and he shrugged off the man's hand and walked down to the end of the stables and through the door and up the white spiral staircase that lead to offices.  
  
He walked down a pristine hallway, glancing at the doors and the gold names painted on them. He saw one door which had previously belonged to a friend of his was still nameless. It wasn't too long before he reached the end of the hall.  
  
"Mr. Christopher Brianstone," he read out loud. Taking a deep breath, he rapped sharply on the door.  
  
"Come in," he heard, so he tentatively turned the door knob and stepped inside.  
  
"Ah, Anthony Higgins?" A tall, handsome older man was staring down at Race, his long hand outstretched.  
  
Race shook it after a moment. "Hello," he said, "uh, sir."  
  
Mr. Brianstone smiled, managing to show every one of his perfectly straight teeth. "No need for that, Anthony. We're all friends here." He moved quickly around to the other side of the desk, as if he wanted space between him and Race. He motioned to one of the chairs in front of him. "Sit, sit."  
  
Race did as he was told, wringing his cap nervously.  
  
"Perhaps you're wondering why you're here, Anthony," Mr. Brianstone began. For some reason Race couldn't quite understand, he could still keep up that winning smile as he talked. "No doubt you know of the strike that's occurred this morning. I'm hoping you'll side with us. You're a young man, Anthony, just starting out, with a young wife and no doubt children will come quick into the future." He paused, studying Race's blank expression.  
  
"We've entrusted you with the best horses here. How are they?"  
  
"Oh," Race was startled by the sudden question and squirmed slightly in his seat. "They, uh, they're just great. Really doin' fine."  
  
Mr. Brianstone's face lit up. "Oh, excellent, excellent. You know, we decided to keep them on because they're such fine horses. They'll go on to fame and fortune. And so will you, Anthony, if you play your cards right." Another pause. "Jessop is riding Sabe, am I right?"  
  
"Oh, yes sir," Race replied. Shawn Jessop was Sabe's jockey, and he'd had his share of the limelight ever since Sabe began winning races on top of races.  
  
"Jessop... Yes, an excellent rider. Although," he stared at Race, all signs of his smile evaporated, "I've heard that Sabe prefers you over Jessop. Strange, really, that a horse would care more for its trainer than its rider. But then you've always made friends with your horses, haven't you?"  
  
"Well, any trainer would want-"  
  
"Oh, never mind any trainer, Anthony!" Mr. Brianstone stood up and gazed out of a large picture window that overlooked the track. "Always you've had a reputation for bonding with your horse. Ever since that first one. What was her name?"  
  
Trying to regain his composure, Race cleared his throat. "Dance," he said, quickly.  
  
"Dance, yes, yes... Whatever happened to her?"  
  
Race fumbled around with his cap again and stared at the floor. "When she had the accident her owner sent her to his estate. His niece rides her."  
  
The words brought up painful memories. Race, trained to do so, pushed them back in his mind. He focused on reality. What was he doing here? Was Brianstone just trying to cozy up to him to keep him from striking?  
  
Mr. Brianstone glanced back at Race. "She could have been wonderful."  
  
'She was wonderful,' Race was thinking, but he didn't say anything.  
  
"But anyhow, you became instantly connected to her. And it's the same with Sabe, Tappi, and Coal. There's no denying that horses just love you." He heaved a sigh. "Ah, but these are hard times we're in Anthony. You would know. I meant to tell you congratulations on your marriage. I must meet lovely Isabelle sometime."  
  
"Ivy," Race corrected automatically.  
  
Mr. Brianstone acted as though he didn't hear. "As a young man, you should know that certain opportunities rise and it's best not to ignore them." He smiled again. "What I'm saying is that there are, ah, benefits for those who choose to stay friends with us at the racetrack."  
  
Insulted, Race slowly rose from the chair. "Wait," he said, breathing deeply, "do you mean to tell me that you're bribing me?"  
  
In a few quick seconds Mr. Brianstone was back on Race's side of the office. "No, no! We don't like to use that term, Anthony."  
  
"Mr. Brianstone," Race was starting to lose his temper now. "Do you remember two years ago, there was a huge newsboys strike?" He watched his employer nod. "I was a part of it. And I didn't have any backup funds or safe places to go. I starved for days instead of workin' as a scab. And I sure as hell ain't changing policies just because you offer me the job of a scab." Angry, he turned on his heel.  
  
"Anthony! Please, please, don't go. Uh, we just care about you, personally, I mean with your marriage and-"  
  
"My, marriage, huh?" Race turned back around and stared into the now unruly face of Mr. Brianstone. "What's my wife's name? Tell me on the first guess and, on my word, I won't strike."  
  
"Her name?" Mr. Brianstone's already pale face lost more color, turning pasty white against his dark moustache. "Her, uh..." He looked away, ran a hand through his hair, and turned back to Race. "Her name... oh, Ivy..."  
  
Sighing to himself, Jack threw one last wistful glance around the bunkroom. Today was his twentieth birthday, and he felt it was time to step out and shake off the newsies. Get a real job. The words scared him a little, cracking the tough façade he wore.  
  
"Kelly? You up here?"  
  
Jack turned to see the old owner, Kloppman, walk up the steps.  
  
"I'm sayin' so long," Jack told him as he walked over to the man.  
  
Kloppman raised an eyebrow. "You'll be back though, right? Come on Jack, you know you won't be able to stay away for long, even if you never sell another newspaper in your life." He stared at him beadily.  
  
Jack shrugged. "I guess. I have ta meet up wid Spot in Brooklyn. I'll see you though." He thought for a second, then reached his hand out. Kloppman shook it, smiling, before Jack grinned and said, "Thanks for everything, Kloppman, you saved me neck a thousand times."  
  
"My pleasure, Kelly," Kloppman responded, and he moved to allow Jack to walk past him.  
  
Without a backwards glance, Jack headed out of the empty lodging house and officially ended his newsie career. He took his time walking to the diner where he intended to meet the former Brooklyn newsie leader. Former because the two friends had decided to end being newsies together, leaving Brooklyn and Lower Manhattan in the unsteady hands of the newsies they left behind.  
  
After a long walk, Jack finally found himself at the diner, where Spot and his girlfriend were eating.  
  
"'Lo Spot, Chris," Jack said, smiling.  
  
Spot saw him and jumped to his feet to shake his hand. "No spit this time," he said, referring to the spit-shake custom the newsies had, "'cause we ain't newsies no more."  
  
"It's weird though, huh?" Jack said, sitting down. "I've been sellin' papes since I could walk and now I don't know what to do with myself. I mean, I got all dis knowledge 'bout the world and politics from readin' the papes, but who's gonna hire a poor kid for a respectable job?"  
  
"I know how you mean, Jacky-boy," Spot answered. "But don't worry. We didn't survive twenty years of street livin' to be beaten down by the first boss we meet."  
  
Jack grinned at his friend. He hoped Spot was right.  
  
"Blink! Could you get the door?"  
  
In a few seconds, Mae Wharrall saw her fiancé's smiling face, flushed but happy. He took the boxes she was holding and walked through her apartment.  
  
"Mae, ya gotta call me Jon now, got it? Now that I ain't a newsie, I'm not Kid Blink," he told her over his shoulder. "I'm a workin' man, and Jonathan Flanagan is a fine workin' man's name."  
  
Mae laughed and said, "All right you working man, just don't drop those boxes."  
  
He grinned, although she couldn't see it, and ran down the stairs. When he returned, he had the morning paper in hands. Hearing Mae in the other room, Blink, Jon now, sat down and stared reading.  
  
"Hey!" Mae scolded, brandishing the long skirt in her hands as a whip and lightly hitting Jon's knee. "You're not allowed to sit on the job."  
  
Ignoring her request, Jon glanced at the articles. "As a former newsie," he began, "I feel it's important to keep up with the times." He had a feeling Mae would comment and he held up his hand to stop her. "Wait...what's this?" Jon motioned to one smaller article. Mae, hearing the tome of his voice, leaned in to examine the paper.  
  
"What?" she asked.  
  
"Prisoner dead at 21, victims outraged... Geez Mae! This is about Tad!" He looked up at her confused face. "Don't you remember? Tad was one of Ivy's friends, only she found out he stole the jewel and murdered some guy she knew."  
  
"Yeah, I remember," Mae said suddenly. "Tad... O'Loughlin, right? She always acted like he was a great guy."  
  
Jon smiled grimly. "Aside from this," he motioned at the paper, referring to his crimes, "he was. I met him and he was nice." He paused. "Ivy must be taking this hard..."  
  
At this Mae stood up and took the newspaper from Jon. Folding it, she said, "I'll talk to her about it, if you want, tomorrow. I'm going to talk to her about a few things that have to do with the wedding over lunch." All thought of Tad O'Loughlin went out of her mind; she smiled sweetly and tossed the newspaper aside. "But now, you have to get up, get off to work." She tried reaching for his collar, but with a swift gesture, Jon had knocked her into his lap.  
  
"I'll get to work," he said, laughing, "don't worry 'bout me. Although, hey, I've got a few minutes."  
  
He kissed her cheek and tilted her chin up but stopped suddenly. "Oh, hey Mary."  
  
Mae's roommate and one of her best friends had walked out of the door of her room. Mae jumped lightly to her feet.  
  
"Is that a letter?" she asked, noticing the folded piece of paper in Mary's hand. Mary nodded, her generally happy face clouded over.  
  
"Is it from Mush?" Jon guessed. Another bleak nod.  
  
Almost fearing the answer, Mae asked, "What is it about? What did he say?"  
  
"Oh, the usual," Mary replied slowly. She set the letter down but thought better of it and picked it up again. "He said he met a girl."  
  
Mae and Jon passed glances. For several weeks now Mush had been in Massachusetts, trying to get in touch with one of his brothers. Each day it seemed he was closer to finding Kerry, his older brother, but each day proved a failure and the visit that was supposed to be two weeks at most had now stretched to nearly 3 months.  
  
"He met her working in a high school, apparent one Kerry went to. She's nice, he says." She thought silently for a moment. "She's much older; 26 or 27 or something like that. Her name's Eleanor."  
  
Mae could tell Mary didn't want to talk about it. No doubt she had turned over the possibilities since she'd received the letter. Mae wanted to apologize for being out so late last night when she should have been at home, comforting her friend.  
  
Mary smiled, however forced, and picked up the paper.  
  
"So," she said cheerfully, "anything interesting?"  
  
Ivy stared at the State Penitentiary through the windows of the carriage. Her face was as white as the marble walls.  
  
"You sure you want to be left here, miss?" the cabby asked.  
  
Ivy swallowed and answered yes in a small voice. The cabby jumped down and opened the door for her. Ivy's hands were still cold and clammy and, now, shaking. She pushed the paper into her small purse and slowly walked up the front door. She had some hesitation before ringing the bell.  
  
Ivy was not exactly a fine upstanding citizen. In her past, in fact a little less than a year ago, she had been on trial for grand theft and first-degree murder. Although she had gotten off easy and been granted bail, it still wasn't necessarily safe for her to wander into a prison. Still...they wouldn't recognize her. She'd gone though so much in the past year, she had to be different.  
  
Cautiously, she reached her hand out to ring the bell.  
  
"Yes?" The cold face of a guard appeared in a small sliver of light.  
  
"I'd like to see someone," Ivy answered, hoping her nicely done hair and fine clothes wouldn't meld with the image of her in rags.  
  
The door closed suddenly, then opened wide enough to let her pass. Ivy turned to the driver and, having already paid him, told him he didn't need to wait for her. She stepped inside a dark room, barely lit by the light from the small windows and a few candles.  
  
"Who?" a clerk asked from behind a desk. Ivy guessed he had heard the previous conversation.  
  
Ivy took a deep breath. "Theodore O'Loughlin," she said, a little louder than she had been speaking.  
  
"You're too late," replied the clerk briskly. "Too late by only a day. He's dead."  
  
Ivy felt her stomach writhe as she heard the words. "I...know," she managed to choke out. "I wanted to see him. I heard he would be given a funeral."  
  
The clerk passed a glance at the guard and the two stared at her intensely. "Yes... Well, Kitlas, show her to the coffin."  
  
The guard moved forward and held Ivy's elbow. "Come along," he told her. Ivy felt herself be nearly pulled down a gray hallway. The guard remained silent as he swooped through the prison, occasionally pulling Ivy through doors and between courtyards until they reached a small, dismal building a little separate from the prison. The guard rapped sharply on the door. As she waited for it to open, Ivy glanced around her. The sun was shining, warm and sweet, and in a fenced-in yard to her right she could see dozens of inmates playing catch and talking to one another. She let her eyes linger past them and saw the immense walls of the prison sweep up and block from view what should have been green trees.  
  
She heard the door swung open and turned back to look.  
  
"Eh?" said a voice. The speaker moved out of the dark inner room into the sunlight and Ivy got a good look at him. He was a priest. Fifty, sixty years old maybe. He wore a look of slight confusion as he gazed at Ivy and the guard.  
  
"She wants ter see the body," said the guard, finally releasing his iron grip on her elbow.  
  
The priest smiled slightly and opened the door wide enough for Ivy to slip through. She turned to thank the guard, but, to her consternation, found he had disappeared. When she turned back around, she studied the small room. There was a long table that ended in what looked like a large oven. On top of the table was a plain black coffin and standing next to it was a man with thick glasses and a full beard and mustache. Ivy didn't like the way his thin hands moved so deftly around the coffin, almost as if this was casual business. She continued to dislike him until realizing he must be the undertaker, and therefore it was just business to him.  
  
"What's your name, child?" the priest asked.  
  
"Ivy," Ivy said back to him in a hushed voice. "Ivy Higgins."  
  
She felt the priest's comforting hand on her back as he introduced himself as Father Baird and the undertaker as Mr. Horn.  
  
"Is this where his-" Ivy felt her voice crack and stopped. She cleared her throat and continued as she walked towards the coffin. "Where his body is?" Very slowly she placed a hand on the coffin.  
  
"Ah, yes," said the priest quietly. "Poor boy. I won't open the coffin, miss. The lad died from a headlong fall... Ye wouldn't be able to recognize him."  
  
Ivy stared sadly at the coffin. She stroked it gently and felt her stomach twist up. A lump had been forming in her throat ever since she had read the news in the paper. She tried in vain to swallow it, to clear her eyes of the tears she knew were forming, but she couldn't help it. A sob coughed out of her, pushing at her ribs and twisting her to pieces until she couldn't help but break down and cry.  
  
"Maybe she should go outside." The brooding figure, Mr. Horn, had spoken gruffly. "She won't like it when I cremate it." He jerked his head towards the coffin.  
  
"Aye, that would be a good idea," the priest replied. He put an arm around Ivy's shaking body. "Come along, child. We'll get a breath of air." He steered her out the door, away from the coffin.  
  
"Eh... Were ye a friend of the bay?" Father Baird asked.  
  
Ivy nodded. "I knew him. It was years ago." That wasn't entirely true. Ivy had last seen Tad O'Loughlin just a few weeks before she was married. But then their meeting had been bitter. Tad blamed Ivy for being in jail, and the loving friendship that had grown from the two had suddenly crashed down. Ivy was speaking of the times before either had left Ireland--when Ivy was a poor American child and Tad a caring Irish angel. Before either had gotten into the trouble they eventually found themselves in.  
  
Trying desperately to mop up the mess of tears that kept pouring down her face, Ivy asked the priest if he had known Tad.  
  
"Ach, no," he answered. "I'm just here to help the deceased pass on." He smiled comfortingly at the sad girl. "What was he here for?"  
  
Ivy pretended to ignore him. Murder and theft, same as she had been on trial for, only she didn't want to say it. In fact, she felt less like talking every second that passed by. She hurriedly wiped the tears off on the back of her hand.  
  
"They'll bury him here?" she asked.  
  
Father Baird nodded. "There is a graveyard just back a few feet."  
  
Making a mental note to visit this grave when she had spare time, Ivy shook hands with the priest and said, "Thank-you for taking care of Tad. I think I should go now, though." Her eyes played up to the chimney of the small house where Tad's coffin was. Black smoke was pouring out of it and she shivered in spite of the warm sun as she thought of her sweet Tad.  
  
"Do ye need help getting back to the front?" Father Baird asked her.  
  
She shook her head. Although she had been slightly dazed, she was smart and took notice of things. She could find her way back. She thanked him again and paused half a moment to look at the smoke again. 'Oh Tad,' she thought. 'My wonderful Tad... Why did this have to happen?'  
  
Jon tossed a dishtowel over his shoulder and picked up a full tray of drinks. Walking with the precise balance earned after years of holding newspaper stacks, he walked swiftly to the table he was waiting on and dropped off the drinks. The customers, a group of five or so young girls, all smiled and passed each other looks. For other reasons, Jon smiled back and retreated to the kitchen.  
  
During the past weeks, he'd taken a job at Tibby's waiting tables and, when the occasion called, cooking. It was good work; he'd known the owner, Bill Tibby, for years since he became a newsie, making the job ideal. Although Mr. Tibby had told him he could keep the nickname Kid Blink, Jon felt it was more of a kid thing, something he had to give up, and so he asked his new employer to only call him Jon or Jonathan. And since Mr. Tibby had to, so did everyone else. It was surprising how well they adapted, only at times Mae would slip and call him "Blink."  
  
Mr. Tibby smiled at Jon as he came into the kitchen. "Good thing I hired you," he joked, "you keep all the ladies in the restaurant happy."  
  
Jon laughed at this, pausing to take a few sips of water.  
  
"You'll get a big tip, but too bad they don't know what you'll spend the money on," laughed another waiter.  
  
It was true that Jon saved all his tip money to pay for things for Mae. It had taken him nearly two months of hard work to save up for the ring he'd wanted for her. It wasn't necessarily the ring she wanted, or at least so she thought until the day he showed it to her and promised it would be hers if she married him. Being too poor for an engagement ring, there was only the one wedding band although only Jon minded.  
  
He let these thoughts drift through his head as he waited for something to do. One of the girls, seeing him leaning by the wall, called him over. Amid giggles and smiles she asked for another glass of soda. Jon, noticing all too well the rich fabric of their dresses, winked and smiled and replied with a "No problem, sweetheart."  
  
On the inside he was laughing. Their tips would be used to pay for some of the apartment Jon was renting. If the winks were for anyone's benefit, it would be Mae, but certainly not the laughing group of girls Jon was waiting on.  
  
Presently, they paid their check and left the large tip Jon was hoping for. Pocketing the money, he deposited the check and money for their lunch to the wicker basket kept for just that purpose. Almost as soon as the door swung closed, it opened again and a large group of newsies walked in.  
  
They greeted Jon with smiles and waves and sat down at a few tables. They were more subdued than usual, and although that made Mr. Tibby happy, it was enough to throw Jon for a minute.  
  
He walked to the back table and asked what they wanted. They all glanced at each other nervously and asked him to come back in a few minutes. A puzzled look on his face, Jon moved on to another table.  
  
"So what'll it be, boys?" he asked cheerfully. These were newsies he didn't know, newsies he'd never laid eyes on before. Again, it made for a surprise. It was rare for such a large group to suddenly join the Manhattan newsies.  
  
"Uh...not right now," one kid told him, his eyes on the door.  
  
"That goes for all of you?" Jon asked loudly. All the newsies turned to look at him but suddenly looked away as the door to Tibby's opened again.  
  
An older newsie, Jon guessed he was about 16 or 17, strolled through the door with a train of about 6 other newsies. The sudden attention of everyone on this one boy and the respect he was getting made Jon think this could be no one but a borough leader. The question was, which borough?  
  
Race doggedly climbed the stairs of his apartment building. Generally, he liked having the only apartment on the top floor, as it gave Ivy and him a sense of privacy and entitled them to be the only tenants to use the roof. Today, however, was one the days he despised it, as he had to climb an extra five stories.  
  
Thoughts kept flitting through his mind. His foolish bet. Mr. Brianstone answering correctly. The realization that he couldn't strike. He had to remember that above all, he was a gambler. And an honest gambler, at that. Honest gamblers knew when they lost they collected what they had and took the consequences. Luckily for him, he hadn't said he would side with the track, or he'd be held to that, too. But it was enough for him to have sworn he wouldn't strike.  
  
The second he left the office, people were waiting for him to say what it had been about. Race told them simply, he wouldn't strike.  
  
"You have to!" someone hissed at his side. "You know Sharma didn't loose any horses and he's already said he won't strike either. We were counting on you to join up with us and set an example: we have to stick together and it doesn't matter whether you've lost one horse or if you're the jockey to that one horse."  
  
We have to stick together. Of course Race knew that. He couldn't explain to them what had happened—they refused to listen to him unless he said he would join up with him. A few of his friends warned him that Sabe, Tappi, and Coal were in dangerous positions now as angry strikers could take some of that anger out on the horses.  
  
Unwillingly, the stories he'd heard of the dangerous things done to horses came to mind. For more than a few reasons, he was glad he reached the front door of his apartment.  
  
He turned the knob, as Ivy generally didn't lock the door when she was waiting for him. Today, however, the door refused to budge, so Race dug into the pocket of his pants and pulled out his key.  
  
Once inside, the apartment was dark, cold, empty. Race had never felt that before coming into his own house. Ivy always had a gaslight blazing or something on the stove or even the lingering heat of her presence. Race had the distinct feeling no one had been in the apartment since morning.  
  
He didn't worry. Ivy was, after all, a very social person and the chances were excellent she had met a friend on the street and stayed later than anticipated or decided to have dinner. Undaunted, Race searched for a note. She always left a note if she wasn't there.  
  
'Ran down to Leamy's for bread,' or 'Out with Anne—don't wait up.'  
  
As much as he searched, there was no note. Still, he didn't get worried as thought rationally. If could have been in a rush. If she were, it would have been a nuisance to run upstairs and downstairs. She could have just given a note to their kind landlady, Mrs. Rusmin.  
  
The more he thought about it, running down the stairs, the more it made sense. He wondered vaguely why Ivy had never done it before.  
  
His breath was short when he finally reached the first floor. Without even pausing to catch it, he knocked on Mrs. Rusmin's door.  
  
"Ah, hello Racetrack," she said kindly. Her sweet accent, usually a calming device, had no effect on Race's nerves.  
  
"Ivy di'n't..." he gasped for breath, "she didn't leave...ya a note, did she? 'Bout where she'd be right now?" He leaned one shaky hand on her doorframe.  
  
Mrs. Rusmin looked alarmed. "Oh, no dear, she-"  
  
The front door of the apartment building swung open, and in walked Ivy. She looked as though she had the same occupied expression Race had just a few minutes before.  
  
Upon seeing her tenant, Mrs. Rusmin smiled. "There she is! Hello, Ivy. Oh! I wanted to remind you that Mr. Redwood said he'd be starting 6 o'clock a.m. music lessons so don't be surprised if you hear a piano banging away as you wake up. If that's all, I really must run, dears. I've a bit of water on the stove." She said her good-byes and dashed away, leaving Ivy and Race alone in the stairwell.  
  
"Where were you?" Race demanded, all relief of seeing her washed away with anger and suspicion. "I came home and the apartment was dark."  
  
Ivy was ignoring him, or at least she made no motion that she was listening. She started to walk towards and up the stairs.  
  
"No dinner," he continued. "No mail. No note."  
  
Ivy spun around at his words and walked back to the row of mailboxes by the front door. She slowly drew a key from her pocket and turned it in the lock. Taking out her mail, she looked at it with a vacant expression on her sad face.  
  
"Ivy!"  
  
She ignored him still and, walking slower and slower with each step, started to climb the stairs and open some letters. Angry, Race followed.  
  
"We got a letter from Mush," Ivy said as her small fingers traced over the words in front of her. Her voice, quiet and calm, only added to Race's anger.  
  
"Ivy! Where were you?"  
  
"He sounds like he's having a good time." Her thin words barely echoed in the stairwell.  
  
Race pushed out his arm to stop her. "Why weren't you at home?" He kept his voice level and tried looking at her eyes, but she only ducked underneath the obstacle and continued walking, as if in a dreamlike trance.  
  
She pushed the letter from Mush into her pocket and opened another. Race was convinced she wouldn't listen. They neared their floor and Ivy spoke again.  
  
"Zandor wants to visit the last week in May... I'll write to him and tell him that's fine." She added her brother's letter to her pocket just as they reached the top floor.  
  
"You left the door open," Ivy said, sounding more awed than surprised.  
  
Race walked past her. "I was rushing to get downstairs and I didn't think about it," he growled. Softer, he added, "I was worried." He turned around and watched her enter the apartment after him, her face still buried in the letters.  
  
"What happened?" he asked again. Ivy wasn't acting right, something was wrong with her. "Why weren't you at home? What happened to dinner? And even the newspaper...where is it?"  
  
Ivy set the mail gently on the kitchen table. "I left the paper in the cab," she told him, walking towards their bedroom.  
  
"Cab?"  
  
Ivy didn't reply as she removed her jacket and closed the door behind her. Race placed the mail in the box they kept for that purpose and followed his wife. He opened the door and stepped into their dimly lit room. Ivy was lying on the bed, still in her long dress and, Race noticed for the first time dusty, shoes. He reached for a packet of matches, but Ivy shook her head.  
  
"I just want to sit in the dark," she said, eyes closed and breathing softly.  
  
Race sat next to her and put his hand on her waist. "Where did you go today that you had to take a cab?"  
  
The mattress squeaked slightly as Ivy shifted position. "The penitentiary."  
  
"What?" Race's voice was a soft as hers had been. "Why?"  
  
He noticed that there was a faint trace down Ivy's cheek. He moved his hand to touch it, but paused. Something was definitely not right.  
  
Seconds passed by. Ivy held her body perfectly still: one elbow tucked underneath her head, the other arm wrapped around herself. She didn't move. She hardly breathed.  
  
Race grew impatient and began to rise from the bed.  
  
"Tad died," Ivy whispered.  
  
Race turned on a dime and was immediately at her side again. Ivy leaned up, one unsteady arm supporting her, and Race could see her eyes were red, and had been ever since she walked through the building door.  
  
"I read it in the paper, that he had died. Race, he had no one, no family, and I had to see him. I wanted to say good-bye." Ivy drew her knees up to her chest and stared at Race's face. "And I didn't, I couldn't!" Tears were flowing freely down her cheeks now, unchecked as they had been for so long, they spilled forth with Ivy barely noticing.  
  
"As soon as I read the words I left, but what was the point? When I got there I was too shocked or sad or...I don't know! All I wanted was to say good-bye and I couldn't..." Her voice rose and fell in extreme pitches as she struggled to control it. Tears fell from her eyes and she rubbed the back of her hand against them. She was rocking back and forth now, slowly. "He died from a fall and they said his face would be unrec-" her voice broke and she swallowed and coughed, "unrecognizable and I shouldn't open the coffin. I couldn't stay there any more and I had to run. I couldn't stay, not even for him. I got back to the front desk and asked if I could visit his grave and he asked if I was family and I said no and he said only family could visit the graves. I wanted to tell him Tad has no family. Only me. And I couldn't even do that. No... he's really alone. There's no one to put flowers on his grave or talk to him or let him know I miss him."  
  
Her voice grew more and more unsteady with each word until it jabbed her vocal chords so much she had to pause to catch up and make it steady. She felt like she was trying to swallow a thick gray lump right below her chin. The harder she forced it down, the harder it pushed against her until she let the lump dissolve into tears.  
  
"I should have visited him more when he was prison. I never thought... Race, he's really gone! My best friend, my brother... He was only twenty-one... The last time I saw him I said such terrible things." She leaned towards Race and he held out his arm for her. Race hugged her tightly and smoothed down her hair.  
  
Ivy didn't know what was wrong with her. She felt like her stomach had been pulled out of her body. Her tears, she didn't know she could ever cry so much, just kept coming, staining Race's shirt. Ivy was lightheaded; her skin was cold to the touch and clammy. Waves of sadness hit her, punched her. She felt angry, abandoned, guilty, ashamed. She never cried, and now she was gulping for breaths and trying not to think of the hundred sweet things Tad had done for her. She hated herself for doing it but she tried focusing on Tad's negative points and the terrible things he had done. It didn't work. Over and over Ivy kept thinking why why why why why?  
  
Very few thoughts were going through the little girl's mind. She stood in a doorway, barely visible over the crowds of people, and was screaming out the words of songs she knew. In her small hands was a handkerchief, used for the sole purpose of collecting whatever pennies a few from the crowd might give her. It was empty, although that hardly surprised the girl--she knew she wasn't very good at singing. Maybe a thousand people were packed into the tiny street built for less than half at that number. But it was a holiday today, so free ale was given out to the people and word spread quickly. The little girl tried hard to be noticeable, but it was pointless. No one wanted to look at her, almost as though they were ashamed they couldn't help a street orphan, and the best way to solve this problem was to ignore her very existence.  
  
Undaunted, the girl continued to bawl out song after song. A boy, not very much older than her, had been keeping an eye on her for the past half an hour. He was incredibly gifted with musical talent, mastering all of the Irish instruments although he wasn't yet ten. Aside from instruments, he knew songs and a lot about singing, and although the little girl's voice was brash and unpleasant, something told him he could help her sing well.  
  
All emotion put aside, the boy finally pushed through the crowd until he was standing in front of the girl.  
  
"Good Lord, you're bad," he said. He had meant to add, "But I can make ye better," except hadn't been given the time. Within seconds the girl had reacted and used her tiny fists to hit him, over and over, until finally his small nose started to bleed. In a flash she was off him and he yanked at her handkerchief to stop the blood.  
  
"What did ye do that for?!" he demanded. He grabbed her elbow with his free hand and moved away from the crowd. She still hadn't said anything, silently protesting the iron grip he had on her arm.  
  
By the time the boy had taken her where he wanted, she gave up and instead studied him.  
  
He still had her kerchief in his hand, mopping up the remnants of his nosebleed, and aside from the slight scowl that crossed his face, he looked good-natured and friendly.  
  
"Well?" she said finally. She stared at him as sullenly as her eight-year- old face would allow.  
  
"Well what? Ye bloody well punched me in the face, I'd say I've got the right tae ask a few questions." He sighed. "Do ye have a name?" He'd meant it as a joke; he believed the answer would be yes.  
  
She looked away, her face hard and unreadable in the dim light.  
  
'No, then,' the boy thought. He cleared his throat. "Mae name, as me parents gave tae me, is Theodore O'Loughlin. At home they call me Tad, and ye can too, if ye like."  
  
"What kind of a name is that?" the girl asked.  
  
Tad smiled. "'Tis an Irish name, and as good as one would want. And ye must be American, judging from the accent which is much easier to read than your face." He paused. "Eh...ye are American, are ye?"  
  
She nodded. "New York City."  
  
At this Tad broke into a grin. It was the first sentence she hadn't rimmed with anger and Tad found her voice to be much what he expected: warm and melodious.  
  
"New York...aye, 'tis lovely I suppose." He wanted to explain to her why he went up to her and he knew she wanted the same thing. Instead of explaining anything, Tad folded up the handkerchief and put it in his pocket. "Do ye mind if I keep it for a bit? Mam could wash it for you if we go back tae my home, and she could also give ye some new clothes. Ye could meet me brither and Da.  
  
She was too stubborn to nod, and still curious about what he wanted from her, so when Tad started to walk away, she merely followed.  
  
"Ah, we'll need a name for ye, dough. I very well can't introduce ye as dee girl I met who me a bloody nose." He glanced over at her, noticing she was struggling to keep up with his brisk pace. In a passing second they were both bright with the glow of a street lamp. Tad saw a clear picture of the girl: dark curls, white skin, rose-colored cheeks. The image was so perfectly ethereal Tad could hardly imagine it was the same dirty child he'd met on the streets.  
  
"Sprite," he said. And that's what she had suddenly reminded him of: the picture from the fairytale book his mother had.  
  
"You want to call me Sprite?" she asked. She smiled, and Tad said nothing. He hadn't meant to use it for a name but when he noticed the sheer loveliness of her reaction he passed her another grin.  
  
"Sprite 'tis, then," Tad replied.  
  
They kept walking, far away from the crowd. Eventually, the street lamps disappeared and the ground became broken and uneven. They shuffled through the darkness, and Sprite held Tad's hand because she didn't know the way.  
  
It was early in the morning when Spot hauled himself out of bed. He had promised himself yesterday that he could sleep in so long as he got up to look for work. People had told him that it would be hard finding work as an uneducated slum kid. Spot wasn't worried. He dressed in his nicest clothes, still not very nice, and ran a few fingers through his hair. It was getting on the long side, making him look younger than 20, but he didn't let it bother him. He walked out his bedroom door, not even pausing as he banged heavily on the door to his right.  
  
He grabbed the last two slices of bread and started to put water on the stove for coffee. In another minute, his sleepy and, needless to say, grouchy girlfriend padded into the kitchen.  
  
"Mornin' Sunshine," Spot said, smirking.  
  
Chris shot a glare at him and pulled a comb out from one of the drawers. Spot studied her as she bent her neck forward and let her long hair tumble over her face. She slowly began combing the messiness out of her hair, her eyes still closed and puffy.  
  
They had been living together for a little over two weeks. The apartment was theirs to share and, meager though it was, to them it already seemed like home. Spot knew that their neighbors didn't like the idea of an unmarried couple living together and he also knew that Chris didn't want to stay unmarried forever. Something about having her as a girlfriend, though; it made him scared to have her for a wife.  
  
"You took the last slices of bread," she said grumpily. "I saved one for you and one for me."  
  
Spot glanced down at the half-piece of bread that was left. He held it out to her. "You can have it, if you want."  
  
Chris stared at him, hard. "No," she said finally. "Just eat it. I guess I'll have to get breakfast at work or something." She worked at a Laundromat, washing clothes and sheets—she always smelled like soap.  
  
As she walked back into her room to get dressed Spot knew she was thinking about another problem. They were dirt poor. They barely had enough to make rent for the next month and buying food was an issue. They had both grown accustomed to small meals, but it was starting to grow ridiculous. Spot didn't know what Chris would eat that day but he had an idea it wouldn't be too much.  
  
His coffee was done in moments and the second he finished, he put his mug by the sink and called, "I'm going. See you." He hurried out the door without waiting for a return good-bye. They used to say "I love you," but lately it had gotten to be cumbersome in their mouths and impossible to force out.  
  
"There was a 'Help Wanted' sign in your window."  
  
"I can read and write."  
  
"I've been on my feet working since I was five years old. I was a newsie, mister."  
  
"I'm a hard worker, just give me a chance!"  
  
Everywhere Spot went there seemed to be just the wrong place for him. He was too young, too inexperienced, too dumb, too poor. He resolved to stay away from factories. If he had to starve until his stomach touched his ribs, so be it. And if Chris wasn't willing to do that...well, Spot guessed she just wasn't the right girl for him.  
  
"You said you needed strong workers, and I'm strong." Spot was at his ninth and, he promised, last job opening of the day. It was nearly five o'clock; he could see workers starting to get ready to leave.  
  
The man behind the desk looked at him beadily. "You don't look strong."  
  
"I am," Stop insisted. He flexed a muscle. "I can do any work you set me to."  
  
Another stare, where Spot found himself examined like a piece of meat. "Ok."  
  
"Ok?"  
  
"Yeah, nine o'clock, tomorrow morning."  
  
Spot could have cheered, but instead he only smirked and signed the papers that the man showed him. He walked back to his apartment whistling.  
  
"Chris!" he called. He had a few small flowers in his hand which he picked up from a park. He sauntered through the apartment until he found her on the fire escape.  
  
"Flowers?" she asked, an eyebrow arched. "Why flowers?"  
  
Making an over-dramatic gesture, Spot handed them over. "A present, and good news." He smiled, waiting for her anticipation to grow. "I got a job."  
  
Chris smiled back, one of the smiles that hit his heart and made him feel like he was floating three inches. "Where?" she said, coyly playing with the flowers.  
  
"The train tracks. I'm gonna help build or repair or maintain anything they need. I got it 'cause I'm so strong." He flexed his arm for her, but paused after noticing the change on her face.  
  
"Train tracks?!" she yelled, thrusting the flowers back at him. "How could you get a job at the train tracks? Cheap labor! That's all you are, and now I'll bet you can't even quit and find a real job!" Chris pushed her way past him and dodged into her room. "I can't believe you did that!"  
  
Spot stared after her, a look of disgust on his face. "Did what?"  
  
Jack had thought about this day for as long as he could remember. All his life he knew he wouldn't be a newsie forever, and he had always thought not being a newsie would make him feel like a completely different person. The only thing was, it didn't. He still felt like same old Jack Kelly, tough smart-aleck, street kid with integrity.  
  
Inhaling deeply, he looked out at the expanse of the city from the Brooklyn Bridge. A few newsies were selling on either side, but none actually on the bridge. By some unwritten agreement, both the Manhattan and Brooklyn newsies left the bridge alone. Jack studied the faces of the newsies. They looked younger for some reason, although Jack couldn't figure out what made him think that. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and turned back to return to Manhattan.  
  
"Mob and Riot on Coney Island!"  
  
Jack paused. That voice had come from behind him, on the bridge. He turned back around, looking for a younger kid selling newspapers. It had to be someone younger, who had just started and didn't know any better. He scanned each face for the one yelling headlines. To his surprise, he found a kid, about fifteen or sixteen, standing with confidence and hollering the headlines.  
  
Looking back at him, Jack figured he must be the type of kid his friend David had started out as: someone down on his luck and just now jumping into the newsie business. Thinking of David as the struggling newsie he had started out as, Jack smiled to himself. He kept the smile on his face as went up to the kid and tapped his shoulder.  
  
"Ah, pape mista?" the kid asked, extending a thin but muscular arm holding a ragged paper.  
  
"Nah, not for me," Jack replied, still smiling. "But listen kid, this here's blank territory. See, nobody sells on the bridge. So what are you?"  
  
That obviously didn't click with the boy.  
  
"I mean," Jack said, "are you a Manhattan newsie or a Brooklyn newsie?" Jack was almost positive the answer would be Brooklyn. After all, he had faith in his band of newsies, he knew they would point the kid in the right direction.  
  
"I'm from Manhattan. I started today."  
  
Jack stared at him. "What? And nobody told you not to sell here?"  
  
The kid shook his head. "The leader told us all that it was all right. He said he was expanding Manhattan's borders."  
  
At these words, Jack's stomach twisted slightly. "What leader? There ain't no leader of Manhattan." He flexed his jaw to control his voice and stared down at the boy.  
  
"Sure there is," the kid replied. "His name's Jag, says he's been in chawge of Manhattan for years."  
  
Jag. The name hit Jack slightly. A scrawny seventeen-year-old from the east side of Manhattan. He'd had a small group of newsies--too small for Jack to really care about him. In fact, Jack rarely heard about Jag. He had his own lodging house and they only sold the afternoon papers. They were quiet, and didn't cause any trouble. The fact that Jag was now under control of his newsies... He had hoped someone else would step up to be the leader. He had always thought it would be Boots, maybe, since the younger kids liked him so much, or maybe Snipes. Maybe, even, an older newsie like Snitch or Snoddy would step up for a few weeks until someone younger was ready for the job.  
  
The kid was still staring at Jack with intensity.  
  
"Listen here," Jack told him. "My name's Cowboy, Jack Kelly to me friends. Up until yesterday I took care a Manhattan and fer as long as I can remember, no one sells on this bridge. So take it from a pro and git off before some Brooklyn hotheads decide to use you for a sidewalk sweeper."  
  
"But Jag said-"  
  
"You ain't takin' orders from Jag no more, I'll see to it." With a final glare, Jack turned off the way he had come. He was going to find Jag and stop whatever plan he had going on. Once a leader, always a leader, and Jack felt it was his responsibility to take care of his newsies. If Jag thought he could drag kids into a territory war with Brooklyn, he would get eaten alive. The Manhattan newsies would crumble like wet paper and whoever was looking after Brooklyn would happily find himself with a couple miles of Lower Manhattan.  
  
Within minutes, Jack found a small knot of newsies standing around a person Jack had to look at twice before deciding he was Jag. He wasn't scrawny anymore. He'd grown taller, stronger, and more intimidating by the second.  
  
"Jag!" Jack yelled. All the newsies turned to see the twenty-year-old walk towards them. "What the hell do you think you're doin'? Putting one a your boys on the bridge? Expanding borders? And who said you were the leader of Manhattan, huh?"  
  
Jag raised a hand to silence the protesting newsies around him. "Cowboy, you're not a newsie no more. What're you doing giving orders?"  
  
"They're still my newsies, Jag. I left you alone for years and now you try to swoop down and try to take control? I wouldn't care if you were a good leader, but trying to scare up wars between the other newsies doesn't sit well with me."  
  
Jag handed the newspapers in his hands to another boy and took a step away from the group. "Who says there's gonna be a war?"  
  
Jack exploded. "What're you, stupid?! Brooklyn's the most territorial out a all the newsies! You think you can just waltz onto their ground and they won't notice?!"  
  
"I'm not stupid, Jack." He paused. "But maybe you are. 'Cause no one's leadin' Brooklyn anymore since Spot Conlon retired, which means no one's gonna tell the Brooklyn boys to fight."  
  
Anger welling up inside of him, Jack glared at Jag. He was right; Spot hadn't chosen anyone new to lead the Brooklyn newsies, making them as unstable as Manhattan had been. Even so, they were liable to take matters into their own hands which in the long run could be worse: Spot at least gave them rules about who and how much a newsie should soak an enemy. Without someone to keep them in check, Brooklyn could very well tear Manhattan to pieces. Jack told Jag all of this, his leader persona evident.  
  
"Well I've been training too, Kelly, and I'm ready," Jag told him. He smirked. "I've already sent envoys out to Brooklyn, to tell them about the strong Manhattan leader who wants to take them under his wing."  
  
Despite the tense situation, Jack laughed. "Envoys?! You better hope an' pray they weren't important newsies or you'll be outta luck. Brooklyn's gonna chew them up and spit them out! No Brooklyn boy wants to be led by someone from Manhattan." He extended a finger and tapped it on Jag's head. "That head a yours hollow?"  
  
Jag slapped away his fingers. "I've got a plan, Kelly. An' when it's done I'm going to end up the strongest leader in newsie history."  
  
"And if it means hurtin' other newsies? And not even for a good reason, but you're gonna let kids fight other kids?"  
  
Jag gestured to one of the newsies behind him and took back his papers. "Yeah," he said. "And I doubt some ex-newsie is gonna be able to stop me." He walked past Jack, pushing his shoulder in the process. Without turning, he called, "See ya 'round, Cowboy."  
  
Jack held back his urge to fight him. So Jag thinks he's unstoppable, huh?  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry Mae. I had some work to finish up; I hope I didn't keep you long." Ivy sailed through the restaurant and reached the table in the back.  
  
"Yeah, you kept me long," Mae joked. She stood up and hugged her friend. "How are you, sweetie?"  
  
"Fine, fine," Ivy replied as she placed her bag beside her chair. "What was it you wanted to talk to me about?"  
  
Mae didn't respond as the waiter walked up to their table. They placed their orders, Mae flirting obviously.  
  
"Mae..." Ivy started, while the now happier waiter disappeared behind a door.  
  
Mae shrugged, and smiled. "What? I'm getting married in a few weeks--I might as well have some fun."  
  
Ivy wrinkled her nose. "But he isn't even good-looking. He looks young and all but you could hardly tell with that bushy beard he's got. And those glasses?" Ivy made two loops with her fingers and put them around her eyes. "I didn't even know glasses came that thick!"  
  
She laughed and Mae laughed with her. They were close enough friends to know when the other was just fooling around.  
  
"But anyway," Mae said, "onto the boy who really matters. What should I do for the wedding?"  
  
They talked for a little bit, first about Ivy's plain wedding and then the one Mae's cousin had. All the while Mae wanted to ask Ivy about Tad, but she couldn't just slip him in between questions about flowers and her opinion on invitations. Ivy was mentioning something about an errand she had to run when Mae put one of her hands over Ivy's.  
  
"How are you?" Mae asked. Before Ivy responded, she added, "And don't lie. Jon and I read the paper yesterday so we know about Tad."  
  
Slowly, Ivy took her hand out from under Mae's. "I'm holding up," she answered, letting her smile drip suddenly from her face.  
  
Mae wasn't convinced. "I've been thinking," she said, "about what happened to me when my grandmother died. She was closer to me than a mother and it almost broke my heart that day." Mae scooted her chair closer and dropped her voice until it was soft and soothing. "It hurt, but not as much as the thought that I didn't get to say good-bye. But then, I got the most incredible feeling." She paused, and smiled. "I didn't need to be there to say good-bye. Whenever I talk, my grandmother can hear me and see me. If I tell her I miss her, she'll know. I think it's the same with Tad. I've never been to prison, but from what I hear it's not too great. And no one can tell me that Tad was happier two days ago than he is today. Jon says he was a really great guy, aside from that mess with the jewel, and I think he deserves some happiness."  
  
The entire time Ivy had listened with her eyes on her lap, but now she lifted them to meet Mae's. They were clear blue, like they usually were when she was sad, but she wore a thin smile.  
  
"If you talk to him, I'll bet he hears. I'll bet he's watching you right now, thinking about you. He knows you wanted to say good-bye, but couldn't, and he forgives you for it." Mae smiled softly. "Are you feeling any better?"  
  
Ivy tried hard to concentrate on what Mae was saying. She smiled back. "Yeah," she replied, and it was true.  
  
The waiter walked up to the table. "Done?" he asked in a thick accent.  
  
Mae grinned at Ivy and looked up at him, propping her chin on her hand. "Oh yes, Dah-ling."  
  
There was a motion in the air, a tremble that people felt when he walked off the train. Power radiated from his every atom, from the heels of his black boots to the tips of his black hair. People sidestepped to let him pass without realizing why they had done it. Small children stood closer to their parents and vendors checked their wares after his shadow had moved on. It was as if everyone knew there was something about him that no one wanted to admit. Or even knew to admit.  
  
He didn't stay long at the train station. His bag was slung around his shoulder and had stayed there throughout the entire train ride, so he had no reason to walk to the baggage claim. He paused, in fact, just long enough to pick up the daily newspaper. He asked the vendor, a timid-looking foreign man, if there happened to be any copies of papers from the last few days.  
  
"See prayper, only day prayper," the man said, struggling between his accent and his unknown fear for his customer.  
  
He bought the paper finally, and read it standing there. After a few moments in which he scrutinized one specific article, he rolled the paper up and put it inside his bag.  
  
He had a few things to do, a few people to visit in on, but first he had to acknowledge the niceties. He slowly walked out of the station, breathing deeply. He could almost feel his strength coming back to him. In this city, he was a fish in the water, a bird in the sky. He was "in his element."  
  
No doubt about it, Bullet was back.  
  
When Race woke up, he found himself alone in bed.  
  
"Ive?" he called. Without thinking, he leapt out of bed and started searching the apartment for her. He heard a noise and walked towards it.  
  
"Ivy? Hey, are you all right?" Race was rushing towards his ash-faced wife. She was leaning her head against the wall of the bathroom and looking like she was trying to keep from getting sick. Despite her efforts, Race watched helplessly as she grabbed her stomach and ran to the toilet bowl.  
  
In another minute or two, she tilted her head up. Tears were evident in her eyes and she looked at him.  
  
"I'll be ok," she assured him, wiping her eyes. "I just didn't expect it." Her head was spinning but she felt whatever nausea was there had passed.  
  
"You think it's that bug goin' around?" Race asked her. He helped her to her feet and was busy wetting a washcloth for her face.  
  
Ivy shrugged, since it was easier than speaking. Her stomach still felt queasy and she didn't want to tempt fate.  
  
Race laughed suddenly and he ran the washcloth over her lips and cheeks. When he noticed Ivy's confused expression, he grinned again. "I was just thinkin' that maybe it's morning sickness. Maybe you're havin' a baby, Ivy."  
  
Ivy smiled weakly at Race's hopefulness. He always joked about children. He said he wanted a boy to teach how to gamble and a girl to spoil rotten--Ivy didn't care so long as she could take care of them. That was the one thing that really bothered her: she never knew her mother and never had anyone even close to a motherly figure; how was she supposed to know how to love and care for her own children?  
  
"I'm not having a baby, Race," Ivy told him, smiling because she felt much better than she had before. "Not now and not for a while."  
  
Race shrugged as he pulled off his shirt and tossed it in the laundry. "Wishful thinkin', right?"  
  
"Are you going to the track tonight?" Ivy asked. She was unbraiding and re- braiding her hair.  
  
"Yeah, I guess," he replied. He told her the same thing every day. He was at the tracks, sure, but he wasn't working. He was good to his word and wasn't striking, but there wasn't too much else to do. Mostly he made sure no one hurt Sabe, Tappi, and Coal, but never working. It had been a week now but it felt like a year. He wanted to take Sabe out on just a quick run but he knew if he did he would get in trouble with the other strikers. The word scab formed in his mind and he frowned against his will.  
  
"What is it?" Ivy asked, glancing at his expression in the mirror.  
  
"Huh?" Race stalled for time. "Oh, I was just thinkin' about Tappi's times-- they ain't improving no matter what I do."  
  
Ivy hugged Race's neck. "I'm sure you'll figure it out," she said, looking at their reflections in the mirror. Race's eyes followed Ivy's and he frowned again.  
  
"Are you sure you're all right? You look pretty pale." He twisted around to look at her face but she kept looking at her reflection.  
  
Still studying the mirror, Ivy let go of Race. "Yeah," she said vaguely. "Maybe I'll stop by to see Anne's mom when I'm out." The mother of their friend Anne was a registered nurse and since meeting Jack had become the unofficial doctor for the Lodging House. Quickly, Ivy replaced the smile on her face and glanced at her husband. "You'd better hurry up and get ready; I'll start with breakfast."  
  
Race watched her float out the door, the concern on his face obvious. He shrugged at the mirror. "What am I worrying about?" he muttered. "It's probably nothing."  
  
Spot was so tired he could barely move his legs. All day he'd been splitting railroad ties, given the grunt work for his first few days of work. As hard as it was, lifting and pulling and cutting, Spot didn't want to go back to his little apartment. Chris, her temper perpetually high, had been giving Spot the cold shoulder ever since he'd taken the job. She wouldn't even talk to him in full sentences anymore. Spot actually winced as he walked, but it wasn't the throbbing pain in his calves, it was the memory of what was waiting for him at home.  
  
He wished, as much as he didn't want to, that she just wouldn't be there. If she just -poof- disappeared one day and he could go out a find a girlfriend that didn't mutter curse words under her breath. Just thinking of that made Spot cut his pace in half, until he was practically crawling down the street.  
  
On his left a small stream of men was walking into a bar. Spot didn't really drink too much--he didn't have the money. Today, though, he had his week's pay in his pocket and no one around to nag him on how to spend it. Without even thinking, he swerved into the bar.  
  
It was a typical place, no one's weekly hangout, and Spot couldn't see himself spending a few hours in there. Except that he did spend a few hours in there, and had enough drinks to have himself staggering out and down the street.  
  
He wasn't worried about Chris now. Hell, he wasn't worried about anything. Job, home, girlfriend. For all he cared, they could go and kiss his-  
  
"Spot! Jesus, what happened?"  
  
Spot lifted his spinning head to look at who was talking. "Jack!" he said happily. "Haven't seen you in... years!"  
  
Sighing and laughing at the same time, Jack put his arm under Spot's shoulders and lifted him to his feet.  
  
"Hey Spot," Jack said, nearly dragging him, "how many drinks did you have? Can you say the alphabet for me?"  
  
Spot smiled. "Yeah, sure! A, g, h, j, u, l, i, t, d, b, n. Oh! Wait, I forgot one... z."  
  
"That's what I thought," Jack laughed. "All right, let's get you to my place. If I take you back home, Chris'll have a fit."  
  
The two of them staggered to Jack's tiny home, a hole-in-the-wall third- floor apartment. Jack boiled him some coffee and made him drink all of it, hot. Spot seemed less elated than he had been when Jack picked him up, and once Jack had made sure Spot was asleep and close to a bucket, he noticed, for the first time since he'd ever known Spot, a look of worry, sadness, and confusion. Jack knew that Spot didn't drink--heavily, at least. Spot's father had and scared him enough not to touch the stuff. Why Spot had started now, Jack couldn't guess, although he had one idea.  
  
"Geez," he muttered, looking at his friend's tired face, "Chris must be putting 'im through hell..."  
  
"Oh, he'll be so happy!"  
  
These words kept hitting Ivy over and over as she finished talking with Anne. Well, Race got his wish. Anne's mother had confirmed what Ivy had half-hoped wasn't possible--Ivy was going to have a baby. Her head was spinning, but of course she was happy.  
  
"How are you going to tell Race?" Anne wanted to know.  
  
Ivy smiled weakly. "I guess I'll just come right out and tell him." She laughed. "He was so worried this was something serious." Without her knowing it, Ivy had placed her hand on her stomach. Anne laughed again and hugged her before reminding her for what seemed the tenth time that Ivy could count on them for anything.  
  
Before they could say anything more, Ivy told Anne and her mother she had to leave to get dinner started. They walked her to the door saying again, over and over, congratulations. Ivy felt her face stretch into a smile and she could barely wait until the door was closed and she was alone in the hallway before letting it lapse into a frown.  
  
Bullet stretched and yawned and smiled. Another wonderful day. He was hoping New York hadn't changed since he'd left, but he almost felt as though the city had been frozen and thawed out when his train reached the station. Within a week Bullet was back to being his old self, despite the constant nagging in his mind that there did happen to be a warrant out for his arrest.  
  
For now Bullet was in an apartment he'd rented under another name, talking to people who he knew he could trust. But he had left one person out.  
  
Bullet hadn't really thought about Ivy much since he'd left New York. The last time he'd had contact with her, he sent her a letter in which he told her, flat out, that he loved her. He'd even gone so far as to have the letter couriered anonymously.  
  
Pulling a shirt on, Bullet walked over to his window where he could make out tiny raindrops falling against the walls of buildings. Now that he thought about it, that letter was pretty stupid of him. He was just a kid, no matter how grown he thought he was. He didn't know what he was saying, what he felt. He was so concerned with getting out of New York before the police found him, he'd let it cloud his judgment. But now he knew better.  
  
Bullet stared out his window, running his fingers though his jet-black hair. He grinned. Today was the day he'd meet up with her. He let himself think a little how she had changed. He wondered vaguely if she had let her hair grow out--he'd always liked it long. He reached into the pocket of the pants he'd worn yesterday and pulled out a piece of paper with an address written on it. Bullet had used some of his old contacts and managed to track down Ivy's address. But he didn't want to talk to her there. No, he would watch until he found her in some deserted place where they wouldn't be interrupted.  
  
He glanced into the small mirror that was hung on his door. He was a little surprised at what he saw. With all the confusion about slipping into New York unnoticed, he hadn't much time for personal appearance. There were lines underneath his eyes that suddenly made him feel much older than 24, and his dark hair fell uncertainly around his eyes. He would have to get a hair cut, then, before visiting Ivy. He didn't want her to think that the past six months he had spent crawling around in the gutter.  
  
Carefully he picked out his cleanest clothes and laid them on his bed. Next to these he put the paper with the address. He sighed to himself as he watched the dreary day outside, but didn't let it bother him too much. After all, his favorite kind of weather was a thunderstorm, and the wet day outside looked as though it might at any moment whip into the summer storms he loved.  
  
Bullet put his keys in his pocket and pulled on his jacket. He slid his shoes over his bare feet and ran downstairs, out the door, through the rain, and into the nearest barber's shop he could find. Shaking the rain from his coat, he looked around the small room. There were two barber's chairs facing a mirrored wall. There was also a line of chairs against the opposite wall and next to a small table piled high with newspapers and pulp magazines. The store was nearly empty except for a cat sitting in the window and a cheerful girl, no older than fifteen, who greeted Bullet as if he were an old friend.  
  
"Mr. Irvine!" she called. "There's a customer here!" She turned to Bullet. "May I take your coat? Here, have a seat." She hung his wet coat on a rack and motioned him towards one of the barber's chairs.  
  
In a moment, a thin elderly man walked through a curtained doorway in the back of the shop. He surveyed Bullet's shabby clothing with resignation and asked politely what Bullet wanted.  
  
"A haircut, real short, and...a shave, I guess," Bullet said, looking at himself in the mirror.  
  
"I think you should keep it," said the girl. She giggled. "I mean, don't cut your hair so short. You look so much more devilish with it longer." She giggled again, and Bullet, inspired by his years of charming people, grinned back.  
  
"Well then, just a shave and a trim," Bullet replied, throwing a wink to the young girl, who turned crimson and quickly walked through the curtained door.  
  
Fifteen minutes later, Bullet wandered out of the store, his black hair now considerably tidier and his face smooth. He hadn't bothered to put on his coat, as the rain had stopped and he was only going a few blocks. As soon as he reached his apartment, he put on the immaculate clothes he had laid out and gave himself one final look over. He grinned and ran downstairs and through the streets of New York, navigating himself in her direction, keeping his eyes open for her face.  
  
"If you get rid of one of us, you have to face us all!"  
  
"Give us back our-"  
  
"-we'll burn this whole place to the ground!"  
  
Race shivered as he heard the strikers yell. It was ten days, ten days, and still they were striking. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his watch. For a few hours he had stayed in the stable, watching over Sabe, Tappi, and Coal. The door to Coal's stall had been smashed almost to pieces and Coal was scared into hysterics. Luckily, Race couldn't believe how lucky, Coal had let Race calm him down before his wild mood spread to any of the other horses. They were all antsy, anxious to be let out, to run. Only Sabe had, and she was the only one who still looked serene and gentle. It was only Sabe because Race, after the strikers had calmed down at night, would slip on her halter and lead her away for a few precious minutes' run.  
  
Right now, though, it was still afternoon, and there was no hope for another ride today. Race headed down towards Sabe's stall, his head down.  
  
"Scab," someone hissed.  
  
Race's head jerked towards the voice. He frowned, but didn't say anything. Far from what he would have done if someone had called him that during the newsies' strike, Race balled his fists and kept them at his side.  
  
"Hey 'Tracks," said another, and far kinder, voice. Race's friend Alex was watching him. "Not that I should have to tell you, but you know this whole 'not striking thing' is getting everyone all riled up. They looked to you for an example."  
  
His nerves still slightly on edge, Race glared at his friend. "I know," he shot back. Finally reaching Sabe's stall, he ran a hand down her nose.  
  
Alex watched all this wordlessly. "I'm just warning you." He dropped his voice slightly. "I know you think a lot of your horses, especially this one," he nodded towards Sabe, "but everyone else knows, too. If you don't give in and strike, they'll go after her. Probably break her legs. I've seen it done before, when competition is really high. You have to be careful."  
  
"What do you think I am doing?!" Race turned around to face Alex, his voice nearly at a whisper. "I told you, I can't strike."  
  
"That whole story about Brimstone's office? Your little bet? No-one-is- buying-it." Alex left his voice clipped to hide is frustration. "No one, and they're getting angrier. I told you they wanted to make an example of you." He glanced at Sabe, who was touching her nose to Race's ear. "They still might." His mouth was set in a hard line. "Watch her," he cautioned. "If things don't change soon, Sabe will never get to win all her races again."  
  
With one last glance at the calm horse, Alex turned and walked out of the stable and back into the yard. It was finally getting dark, and Race could see the strikers outlined in the bonfires they made. Time to go home.  
  
Sabe touched her nose to Race's shoulder again and he reached up to pet her. No, yesterday it would've been time to go home, but not tonight. Swallowing a sigh, Race picked up a blanket and chair and walked back to Sabe's stall. It was going to be a long night.  
  
Two strong hands reached out and grabbed Ivy's waist. As one pulled her towards an open alleyway, the other reached up, pawing its way on Ivy's side until it clamped over her mouth. In the brief seconds as Ivy kicked and struggled she felt the man's cold skin, icy against her own fiery hot cheek, and caught the distinct odor of barber shop's aftershave around his face.  
  
So strong was his grip that Ivy's screams were silenced and even her shoes scraping against the pavement had no noise. He held her diaphragm so tightly she was having trouble taking in breaths. Her vision was filled with bright dots as she opened her eyes wide, panic-struck that she might pass out.  
  
He dragged her to the end of the alley where a large metal door stood open. Before she had time to react he shoved her through the black mouth and shut the heavy door behind him, throwing them both into dark.  
  
Goosebumps were rising on Ivy's skin and her heart threw itself against her ribs as she tried not to think of all the stories she'd read about girls kidnapped, murdered, worse. She could hear her own shallow breathing in contrast to her captor's calm little breaths.  
  
Finally, out of the darkness, he spoke. "You've forgotten basic training."  
  
In a heartbeat Ivy was on her feet, facing the direction the voice came from. "Bullet!" she cried.  
  
He had his back to her, although she couldn't see this, and he was fumbling in the thick dark with a lantern and match.  
  
"You were supposed to go limp and make me carry your dead weight. There's no use struggling against an attack like that and no use trying to call out in a place no one will hear you." His long, thin fingers finally managed to light the aged match in his hands. Touching the flame to a candlewick, he hid the glow of the lantern from Ivy's view. Bullet shook the match out and tossed it aside, saying, "I wanted to see if all these months as a housewife made you stop remembering. Guess they did."  
  
He finally swung to the side, his face barely visible in the dim light. But it wasn't his face Ivy was focused on. In the brief seconds of silence she studied where they were: in a stairwell completely isolated except for a thin ladder of steps running above and a blank hallway behind them. The only source of light came from the lantern. Ivy could see now it was on a wooden crate, and against the far wall there was a similar makeshift table, on which someone had piled papers. It was to this table that Bullet was walking as Ivy glanced over her surroundings.  
  
"What are you doing here?" she finally asked him.  
  
He didn't answer her for a moment. Instead, he picked up a newspaper from the crate and showed it to her. Ivy leaned close to the lantern to see it was a Philadelphia newspaper and one of the articles on the front page read 'New York Convict Dead at 21.'  
  
"I think you already knew the answer," Bullet said, noticing the lack of surprise on Ivy's face. "The news was pretty big; reached me all the way in Philly. O'Loughlin's dea-"  
  
"Call him Tad," Ivy interrupted. "He was my friend."  
  
Bullet stared at her. "He was no friend of mine."  
  
Before he could open his mouth again, Ivy spoke up. "Why are you here?"  
  
He started to speak and reached for the newspaper he'd given her but she shook her head.  
  
"No, I know what you're doing here, but why are you back?"  
  
Bullet kept his hand out for the paper. When it was back in his hands, he folded it and put it aside.  
  
"I don't like that he's dead," he started. "Look at it this way: this kid who manages to fool the world that he's great is suddenly put in a jail. A few months after he receives a 90-year sentence, he dies. Aside from being in jail, this kid had everything going for him. So now he's dead. And something about it is rubbing me wrong." He paused because Ivy was shaking her head. "What?"  
  
"You don't understand what I'm asking," she explained, slowly crossing over to him. "Why are you in New York? Because you're suspicious of Tad? That's no reason to come back and put yourself in danger. What is it really?"  
  
When he looked at her his features were set grimly. "What makes you think there's another reason?" He turned his back to her and flipped through some of the papers.  
  
"I've done the same thing before," Ivy said softly. "Just after Tad was arrested I went to visit him even though there was a good chance I'd be caught. I told myself it was because I wanted to see if it was true. If he was really my Tad. I told myself so much that I started believing it. But it wasn't true. I went back to see him because I loved him. He's the closest thing to family... He 'was' I should say." She stopped, waiting for him to comment.  
  
"That was a stupid thing to do." His voice was harsh, but unreadable. His voice was usually harsh. "You could have ended up in there with him. I'm surprised you didn't."  
  
"But is it any different from what you're doing?" Ivy countered. "Coming back for a half-hearted reason, an excuse for why you're really here. There's still a warrant out for your arrest. ...Bullet? Who are you here to see?"  
  
She wanted him to turn around and talk to her but he kept himself busy with the papers. Her heart was pounding and she was half-scared he would say her name. She thought maybe he hadn't heard the question, though, and began to repeat it.  
  
"Who are-"  
  
"No one," Bullet replied, still facing away. "I'm here for myself. And just myself. You think this is just an excuse, a pitiful reason to come back to New York, and you're wrong. I'm happy in Philadelphia--happier than I've ever been before. I'm not afraid of police anymore and I don't go crouching around old buildings. I'm a student at U. Penn, with friends and a place to live and a future. For the first time I'm not always thinking if the people I know will turn me in because they can't. None of them know about Bullet Tymer, and I plan to keep it that way. I'm sick of not being trusted and not trusting and being judged by strangers everywhere. Nobody's afraid of me back home. Here, I can't walk down the street without instilling fear in everyone I pass by, but there I get smiles and waves and compliments. It's the greatest feeling in the world and if you think I'm going to pass it up just because I ignore this suspicion that there's something rotten in O'Loughlin's death you are sorely mistaken. I don't know why, but him being dead feels like it threatens my freedom. Nothing's going to take my life away from me now."  
  
Throughout the speech Ivy had remained silent, not moving, barely breathing. She was angry though, and she thought she wouldn't have been if he hadn't used those two small words. Back home. Like New York meant nothing to him and maybe it didn't, but the only memories Bullet had of Ivy were connected to New York. She thought her being a part of the city would have made it fonder for him, but she supposed she was wrong. And so, after he had spoken, she let the anger that was building up spill over.  
  
"You talk about freedom, and a new life, but you can't start over, Bullet! You're a criminal, face it, and running off to Philadelphia doesn't change that. Nothing ever will--unless you're caught you'll have to lie every day to keep from people discovering the truth. I know you, Bullet, or I thought I did, and I know what you feel. Your hands itch for jewelry and money; your mind whirs every night with new plans for heists and robberies. You miss stealing."  
  
He was silent, unmoving. His back hunched forward, supported by the fingertips he pressed against the top of the crate.  
  
"I miss it too, sometimes," Ivy continued. Most of the edge had left her voice; she took a few small steps closer to his side. "When I have nothing to do, I wish I was training for a robbery or learning the details of what I would do that night. We were born to steal, you and I. The energy, the danger, the excitement--we both want it back, but we've both learned to alter our lives so we couldn't get it back if we wanted to. But lying to yourself? Saying you've started new-"  
  
The second her small hand touched his arm he turned around and grabbed her by the elbows. His face on fire he hissed, "You know nothing about me if you say I've missed it. I don't. Get it? I don't. And if you're saying you do, maybe you should try analyzing yourself before you look at me." He savagely pushed her back, nearly sending her toppling over the crate with the lantern.  
  
Bullet glared at her with as much fury as he would allow. "I brought you here to ask for your help."  
  
But Ivy was through listening to him. She knew he wasn't telling the truth before, but she didn't think he would be that adamant. Her pride was hurt, and she came too close to hitting the crate. Her mind went immediately to her child.  
  
Bullet was giving her details, something about visiting one of the contacts in prison.  
  
"No!" she shouted. She rose slowly to her feet, her hand over her stomach. Bullet didn't know she was pregnant. He didn't know when he pushed her he was pushing a woman with a baby. Ivy didn't care--she was angry. "No, never. I stopped listening to you a long time ago," She lifted her chin defiantly. "It looks like you did the same for me. I thought you changed, Bullet, but maybe we were both wrong. If all you have to say to me are lies and orders, this is it. Good-bye."  
  
Her hand still curled loosely over her stomach, she sought out the metal door she came through. She planned to ignore all protests that he gave, but he gave none, so as Ivy fumbled with the locks there was silence. Finally, the stairwell was flooded with natural light, blinding white light. Bullet's eyes strained for a moment, but it didn't matter too much. Within seconds he was back to being inside his dark little cave.  
  
Bullet walked into his tiny room. He tossed his key on the bed and pulled off his jacket. The room was still cold and dark, but he barely noticed. From his pants pocket he pulled out a one-way ticket back to Philadelphia and put it on the nightstand.  
  
"I don't think you'll be needing that."  
  
A normal person would have jumped, and so Bullet just stared down at the ticket. Slowly, taking every moment to calculate what he would do, he swung his head around to face the speaker.  
  
"Who are you." He said it like a statement--clipped, impersonal.  
  
The man motioned for him to sit on the bed. Bullet noticed he wore a fine black three-piece suit with a coat slung over his arm. He was sitting in a chair, a black derby hat resting on his knee. "My name, Mr. Tymer, is Rupert Loch. I'm an admirer of yours."  
  
Bullet was quick to respond. "How do you know that name?"  
  
Rupert Loch only smiled slightly, his features dulled by the lack of light. "I know a lot about you. Everything, I would say." His voice bothered Bullet. It crept up on him, covering him head to toe. "I know, for example, where you were born. And who your mother is." He was interrupted by a cough which racked his body for a moment. "And..." he coughed again. "Pardon me. I know other things too. Like who taught you to steal. Like how you got those scars on your back."  
  
Unwillingly, Bullet's scalp tensed and he ran a hand through his neatly trimmed hair. "How?" he asked, finally.  
  
Silence hit both of them all of a sudden until a baby in a tenement two floors below began to wail. With a shudder, they were brought back to reality and their voices became quicker, more energetic.  
  
"I have spies."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because I need you."  
  
"For what?"  
  
"To steal."  
  
Bullet's head jerked up. "Get the hell out of my apartment. I don't steal."  
  
Like a whip, Loch's hand flew through the air and connected with Bullet's cheek. "Stop that language," he said.  
  
Indignant, Bullet rose to his feet. "You think you can walk in here and say those things and slap me for swearing?"  
  
Loch countered and got to his feet as well. The tip of his beaky nose was level with Bullet's eyes. "I didn't mean swearing. I meant the lie. You do steal, Mr. Tymer. And you will steal. For me." He paused. "Or you'll be faced with consequences."  
  
"So what?" All lack of emotion put aside, Bullet was on fire. "Do you really think I care?" He made a move to leave the room, but Loch reached out and captured his wrist.  
  
"You are aware, now, that I know quite well what your patterns and techniques are. You and I therefore both have an idea about what is effective. It's been years, but no doubt you still know about a heart dagger? Yes... I can tell you do. You've doled it out to a number of people, threatened it to ten times that number. An interesting torture, to kill off a person's friends and family but not harm the person themselves. They go mad, all of them, or they kill themselves. It is the fate which awaits you, Mr. Tymer, should you fail to comply with my wishes."  
  
Bullet shoved Loch away. "No." He turned again.  
  
"Kitty is beautiful girl," Loch was saying, "and lovely girlfriend. You wouldn't want her hurt. And Eric just got accepted into law school."  
  
Bullet wavered, but kept walking.  
  
"What about poor Ivy? You would kill a pregnant woman?"  
  
Heart pounding, Bullet stopped. "What?"  
  
Loch's cold eyes brightened for a moment. He smiled triumphantly. "Not many people know, but my spies knew right away. Ivy Higgins will have a baby. Unless, of course, I ask my friends to kill her."  
  
His voice penetrated Bullet worse than a knife. He felt lightheaded, but kept the look of anger on his face. Softly, "What do I have to do?"  
  
Loch turned and collected his coat and hat. Smiling he walked very close to Bullet. "I will have one of my contacts reach you and give you the full instructions. You will have ten months, exactly, to the date."  
  
Bullet wanted to push Loch away, or at least throw a punch, but something held him back. "And what is it I'm stealing?"  
  
The stretched smile grew into a horrible grin. Loch was so close Bullet could hear his breath, choppy from his hacking couch. "You should know. You heart's desire, the one thing anyone would want. You are going to try to steal, again, the Jewel of the Moon."  
  
Her fingers cold, Ivy tried to write a list of things she would need for the next day. Her handwriting, not very good in the first place, was made worse by her stiff fingers. Now was usually the time when Race came home and she would start dinner. Except Race wasn't home, and already it was later than he'd ever stayed out before.  
  
Ivy scolded herself for thinking this. 'Before.' They'd only been married a few months, how did she know if it was normal for him to stay out late? And besides, he could have gone out for a drink, or had some work to finish up. He might have even stopped somewhere and decided to stay there the night. Ivy stood up and walked over to the window. The big clock on the corner said 9:43. Race was more than four hours late.  
  
"He'll be back soon," she told herself, running a hand over her very slightly round stomach. There was a small bump that had only just shown up which Ivy liked to rest her hand on. Instead of finishing her list, she sat in one of the chairs, looking out of the window and vaguely hearing piano music from the floor below.  
  
Ten minutes passed. Half an hour. Two hours later and still Race wasn't home.  
  
"Where is he?" Ivy said softly, her hand running back and forth, back and forth over the tiny bump in her stomach.  
  
It was afternoon the next day when Race came back to the apartment. He came only to sleep for an hour or two, get something to eat, and make up a story to tell Ivy. He knew she wouldn't want to know about the strike.  
  
The moment he turned the doorknob, Ivy was on her feet.  
  
"Race!" she shouted, wrapping her arms around his neck and covering him with kisses. After checking with everyone she thought Race knew, and finding nothing, she'd feared the worst. Tears were running down her cheeks as she pushed the door closed and hugged him again.  
  
"I was so worried!" she said quickly. "You didn't say where you would be. What happened?"  
  
Smiling, Race took off his jacket. "Sorry to scare you, Ive, there was just a problem with one of the horses. One of them was sick pretty bad--it's nothing now, he's fine, but I had to stay out with him all night." He lied easily, although it was the first real lie he'd ever told her. Ivy smiled weakly and told him he should go lie down.  
  
"Everything was thrown off this morning," she said, regaining some of her composure. "I didn't even go shopping or get the mail or paper. I'll just run down and check our mailbox now."  
  
"That'd be fine," Race replied, giving her a kiss on the cheek before heading off into the bedroom. He collapsed onto the bed, not even taking his shoes off. He heard Ivy's steps out of the apartment and a few minutes later coming back in. Curling up into the blankets, he let himself forget his worries and quickly fell asleep.  
  
Soon, he could only tell it had been a few minutes, he felt Ivy shaking him awake. She looked less pleased than before and held the paper in her hand.  
  
"What is it?" Race asked groggily.  
  
Ivy showed him the paper. "Can you explain this?" On the front page of the paper was a large picture of the track with the headline "Sheepshead Hurts as Strike Continues."  
  
"Ivy, I-" Race started.  
  
"Is this where you were last night? Striking?" Ivy's voice was quiet, but her eyes, which made it so clear to tell what she was feeling, burned an angry green. "That paper said the strike has been going on for almost a month. I can't believe you wouldn't tell me. Did you ever think this might be something I should know?"  
  
Race, his nerves shot from a combination of worry, guilt, and lack of sleep, lashed back at Ivy for the first time since he'd ever know her.  
  
"Was I going to tell you?" he said back. "Why would I bother telling you? It's too complicated."  
  
Ivy didn't usually get into fights and never with Race. Her scalp crinkled and she felt hot and cold at the same time, as if she were sick. "I'd think," and she made no effort to hide her anger now, "that since we are married, we're supposed to tell each other important things like these."  
  
"You're one to talk!" Race sat up and got out of bed. "You, with your deep, dark past and your secrets. Why don't you try to follow your own advice sometime, huh?" He pushed past her and into the other room. Ivy quickly joined him, scowling.  
  
"Like I've told you before, you don't want to know things that have happened to me and besides I don't tell you to protect you! How is this protecting me?"  
  
"You want to protect me?" Race sneered. His hands were shaking from anger. "From what?!" He wouldn't even look at Ivy, he was so furious. Instead, he let out all the things he'd been thinking since they'd met, but never said. "From what? Oh, is there some guy you don't want me to know about or something? Did you and Bullet get together one night? What is it? Tell me."  
  
If he hadn't mentioned Bullet... but he had, and so Ivy's lips went white and her heart beat faster than ever. "I wanted to protect you, but now I don't even see why. So, yes, there was some other guy and in fact there were a few of them and because of Bullet more than one isn't alive right now." She broke the promise she'd made to herself not to mention them-- the few she'd known as assignments when she was stealing for Bullet, the few who'd been killed because they let her get close.  
  
Race heard her say this and his stomach clenched. He didn't show it, however, and only seemed twice as enraged. "And so now you're telling me you were nothing more than Bullet's little pros-"  
  
She slapped him. "Get out." Her voice was cold. "Now."  
  
Race knew he went too far, but he was gone with rational thinking. "This is my house," he said. "And I-"  
  
"Get out!" Ivy screamed at him. She pointed to the door, her face blotchy red and white. "Bullet loved me," she hissed at him. "He wanted to marry me. The day we were married he told me he'd always be waiting."  
  
"Oh yeah? Why don't you go pay him a visit?" Race spat out. He grabbed his coat and threw the door open before slamming it shut so hard the walls shook.  
  
Ivy could feel her body shaking until she knew her legs wouldn't support her. She crumpled to a chair, crying hot, choking tears.  
  
Ivy could hear movement from inside the apartment when she knocked on the door. "Hello?" she called out. She was surprised to hear how croaky her voice sounded, although not too surprised, as she hadn't spent much of her day talking.  
  
Chris came to the door, wrapped in only a thin robe. "Yeah?" She sounded impatient.  
  
Ivy blushed. "Sorry, I didn't want to interrupt anything. I just- You can let Spot know I came by, um, to see him. But I'll talk to him some-"  
  
"Oh, Spot isn't here right now," Chris said quickly. She was smiling. "He's at Jack's. Probably for a while. Are you going to go see him? Can you give him a message for me? Tell him yes, a resounding yes. Say it just like that."  
  
Ivy said nothing, but she noticed that a pair of pants and a shirt, looking far too big for Spot, were lying on the floor. She was about to comment when Chris told her, "Don't forget," and shut the door.  
  
Ivy stood, dumbfounded, for a moment before turning around and walking towards Jack's apartment. She made the half-an-hour walk in twenty minutes, pushing people aside in the street. The air kept stinging her eyes and making them water, and she was half afraid she'd start crying in the middle of the street.  
  
"Stop it," she scolded herself. "Stop crying, you baby." She only ran faster.  
  
"Spot!" she called, rushing up the stairs. She knocked loudly on his door with the ball of her fist. He appeared a minute later, dressed for bed and with a glass of water in his hand.  
  
"Ivy?" he said, unsure. He moved aside to let her by and closed the door. "What happened? How did you know I was here?"  
  
"Chris," Ivy muttered, still trying to get her breath back as she sat, hunched over, in a chair. "I went by...and she told me." She looked up at him. "She told me to tell you 'yes,' whatever that means."  
  
Spot seemed to know very well what it meant. He gripped the back of a chair. "That dirty, little, good-for nothing..."  
  
"Spot?"  
  
"...two-timing, piece of trash! She's cheating on me! I asked her are you messing around with someone and there's her answer! Yes! Was anyone there? A guy? Was she alone or something?"  
  
"I didn't notice," Ivy lied.  
  
This didn't seem the right thing to say, however. "I don't believe her! Trying to hide it from me! Trying to think she could get away with it! I'll kill that guy, whoever the hell he is--I don't care!" His face was cold and furious. Looking at him, Ivy remembered the way Race's face had looked. She shivered and tears started forming in her eyes.  
  
"Ivy?" Spot sounded confused, but most of the anger had left him. He sat down next to her. "What it is?"  
  
She had heard his question, but she didn't want to tell him. Not that she didn't want him to know, but to tell him she would have to speak and she didn't trust her voice to work the way she wanted to.  
  
"Hey," Spot said, putting his arm around her. "Did something happen to Race?" Spot had been thinking about Ivy as he had met her yesterday-- frantic with worry that Race hadn't come home. His stomach did a back flip as Ivy nodded slightly. Spot, prepared for the worst, put his arm over her shoulder.  
  
"We got into a fight," Ivy said softly.  
  
Spot stared at her for a minute as Ivy's face screwed up into a frown. But despite her morose expression, Spot broke into a huge grin. Before Ivy could realize what was happening, he was laughing like mad, gasping for air and completely ignoring the half-confused, half-annoyed look Ivy was giving him.  
  
"That's it?" he gasped, wheezing and red in the face.  
  
"Yeah," Ivy snapped back. "What's so funny?"  
  
Spot, trying desperately to breathe again, only laughed harder.  
  
"That's, what, your second ever?" Tears were forming in the corners of his eyes as he looked at her.  
  
Clearly annoyed, Ivy slapped him across the chest. "Stop that. I didn't think the fight was so funny. He didn't tell me about the racetrack strike, and he blamed me for keeping secrets, and-"  
  
"And no matter what, you still end up in the perfect marriage," Spot finished. "Ivy, what are you doing? You go talk to him and you say 'Yeah, ok, we got into a fight. So this is what it's like in a serious relationship.' Then you have some cute little dinner at some quaint little restaurant and pick out names for your perfect little baby."  
  
Finding his voice completely devoid of sarcasm, Ivy dropped her annoyed look. "But the things we said... it hurt," she said softly.  
  
Spot shrugged. "Fights do." He shrugged again, picked up his glass, and walked to the sink. "At least it's better than me and my gutter-trash of an ex-girlfriend. We didn't even fight, we just didn't bother talking." He glanced over at her, where she was sitting, her lips pursed in thought.  
  
"Things will be different between us. He'll want me to tell him more." She turned around and looked back at him.  
  
Another shrug. "So tell him. Enough with this only-trying-to-protect-him junk. Race knows you're not the same person so what harm is there in telling the truth?"  
  
They were interrupted by a few short knocks on the door.  
  
"Jack," Spot decided. "He went out for a walk a little while ago."  
  
Ivy stood up and walked over to the door. She opened it and everything paused for a split second.  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
She didn't need to hear any more. In one quick move she threw her arms around Race's neck, her head spinning and with a smile on her face. Spot stared at the two of them for a second, just quickly enough to see a piece of gauze from under Race's shirt, spotted with blood, before Race hastily pushed it out of Ivy's view.  
  
"I'm so sorry."  
  
Staring up at his ceiling, Bullet thought over, again, how he would structure the heist for the jewel. Last time hadn't been so hard. It had been kept in a glass case in the center of a room, locked up in a steel cage at nights. There were five guards and a dog, each guard with a gun and paid enough to do a good job. They stood in front of one of the two only entrances, the other one being a circular window 30 feet up, double bolted with the glass an inch and a half thick.  
  
No problem. It had taken Bullet a while, initially, until he'd looked over the building enough times and thought over carefully the best course of action. After a good year and a half he had a nice, basic plan, one any idiot could carry out. That had been obvious, he reminded himself, after Sammy Greyhead stole the plans and the jewel right from under Bullet's nose.  
  
This, though, was different. Security was ten times tighter, the owner made nervous, and getting the jewel would be more physically difficult. But skip that, Bullet thought, planning the first heist had taken over year, and this one had to be pulled together in ten months. It had to work, too. Bullet had little experience with empathy, but now he was wondering about people who'd been given the heart dagger. To think, all his new friends, Ivy, people he met... Bullet had no doubts Loch would find out everything. He had proved that much by mentioning Bullet's scars.  
  
Thinking of them, he glanced down and could faintly make out a white mark on his shoulder. One of the longer scars, one of the eight, that ran down the length of his back, from his shoulders to his waist. Bullet had never told anyone how he got them, and he was sure any other people who knew were dead by now. Apparently not.  
  
He thought of that day calmly, without any emotional stab of pain or fear. One of the first tricks he learned as a thief was how to block out the past: imagine the scene as colorless, black and white, and slowly fade it away. It happened automatically now, and almost anything violent or frightening or upsetting that happened to him was slowly repressed, the images and emotions melted away and only the cold facts remaining.  
  
Bullet stopped himself before he went on another unrelated train of thought and focused again on the jewel. He sat up, walked over to desk, lit the candle, and stared at his papers.  
  
"One door on the east side," he muttered, "with a window a square foot in size..."  
  
The four of them sat in a circle around a table in Tibby's. The lights were all off, save one, and, with the exception of the four they were sitting on, the chairs had been stacked off to the side. Smoke, visible by the one bulb, swirled up in a continuous stream from the table to the ceiling above.  
  
"Straight, plain poker, boys."  
  
They were playing the way they always did, with a mixture of smokes and coins instead of real money, and with the same worn-down pack of cards.  
  
"So, how're you, Race?"  
  
Race shuffled out the cards and shook his head. "Not so good, Jack, not so good. The strike is only getting worse, now they're threatening to hurt the horses. Plus, I'm not getting paid and we're starting to run out of money. If things don't turn around I don't know how we're gonna have this kid." He paused. "How 'bout you, Jack?"  
  
Before Jack responded, he pushed a dime into the pile. "I'm managing. That kid, Jag, thinks he's the lord of all creation and can do whatever he wants. I've gotta stop him, or he'll end up ruining Manhattan and Brooklyn, and sending half the kids into the hospital. He's got me so distracted I'm not even looking for job--I'm barely making rent." He looked disdainfully at his small pile of coins before glancing across the table. "Spot?"  
  
Spot stared down at his cards, scowling. "No job. No apartment. No money." He scowled again. "No girl." He hit Jon's arm with his left hand.  
  
"Hm?" Jon was distracted as Race ante'd. "Oh! Things are great!"  
  
Race, Jack, and Spot stared at him.  
  
"Mr. Tibby says I'm doing so well he wants to give me a raise. I don't really even need it, because the tips are pouring in. And not only do I have enough for three months' rent, but in two weeks I'm marrying the most perfect, beautiful, incredible girl I've ever met!" He beamed at the three of them, paying no attention to their dark looks.  
  
"Fold."  
  
"I'm out."  
  
"Me too."  
  
Jon blinked in surprise at their simultaneous response, then grinned again as he collected the money.  
  
"I gotta stop smoking these." Race twirled his cigar between his fingers.  
  
"Yeah," said Spot, looking down at the cards he'd been dealt. "Wanna get rid of your accent too?"  
  
"Ivy doesn't want me to smoke around the kid. Didn't say anything, but I can tell."  
  
"Jeez. That's fatherhood--hey!" Jack reached across the table and slapped Spot's hands away from the pot. "If you're gonna cheat, be better at it."  
  
Jon grinned as Spot shrugged good-naturedly, and looked across at Race. "What're you gonna name it?"  
  
Before Race opened his mouth, Jack leaned over.  
  
"You know," he said, "Jack is a great name."  
  
Spot laughed. "Jack?! I thought your name was Fran-cis." He showed his cards. "Straight." He beat out Jack's three of a kind, Race's pair, and Jon's queen high. "But seriously," he rearranged his now larger pile of coins, "you guys should name it Spot."  
  
"Sure," Jon snorted, "if Ivy were having puppies. You want--ow!" Spot had just hit him up the head. Jon, laughing, dodged the next one. "You an' Ivy want a boy or a girl?"  
  
"Which ever one it is, it better look like Ivy," Jack muttered. All four of them laughed, and Race dealt the cards again, jokingly trying to avoid dealing to Jack.  
  
"Anyone hear from Mush lately?" Jon asked.  
  
Shrugging, Race replied, "He sent us a letter a week ago, but nothing interesting."  
  
"Knowing him, he met a girl." Jack threw his nickel in.  
  
"Knowing him," Race continued, adding his own, "he met a few."  
  
Jon groaned. "Don't say that. Every day Mary complains about that. I don't even care what he's doing so long as he's back by the wedding. You all know what you're doing, right?"  
  
They groaned their yeses--Race as best man and Jack and Spot as ushers.  
  
"First me," Race thought, chewing the end of his cigar, "now you... Who's gonna be next?" He glanced at Jack.  
  
"Not me, no way."  
  
They all turned to look at Spot, who had thrown down his cards.  
  
"Problem, Spot?" Race arched an eyebrow.  
  
"Ivy thought I'd marry Chris. Guess she didn't know Chris was an easy piece of gutter trash. Ha, I wanted to pay a visit to her little houseguest, but Jack thought it wouldn't be a good idea."  
  
"All you need," Jack pointed with his cards, "is to get arrested."  
  
"I already have been!" Spot protested. "Remember?"  
  
They laughed again, grinning at each other.  
  
"Oh yeah--'On the grounds of Brooklyn,' jeez, Spot..." Jon shook his head, still smiling.  
  
"Ok, ok, ok," Race waved his hands around the table. "Come on, let's show our cards."  
  
Instead of doing this, Jon and Jack leaned their heads together. "He has a good hand," Jon said confidentially.  
  
"Hm," Jack agreed. "He only wants us to show our cards when he has a good hand."  
  
"Better humor him," Jon replied.  
  
"Hey!" Race interrupted. "Come on!"  
  
With mock reluctance, the other three laid out their cards. Race grinned broadly and slapped his own down.  
  
"Straight flush!" he said triumphantly.  
  
Jack, Jon, and Spot paused for a second, passing a glance, before in a single sweep they all threw their cards at him.  
  
Jack looked up from tying his shoelace to Spot's preoccupied face.  
  
"Did you hear what I said?"  
  
"What?" Spot answered, not quite listening.  
  
"I said, you were supposed to know some contact somewhere."  
  
Spot looked at Jack for the first time that morning. "Yeah, I do." He looked back out at the crowd walking past their bench, busy people on their way to their jobs.  
  
"And so? Why didn't you talk to him the first time you needed work? And what is this job anyway? You know I need some pay." Jack stared at the side of his friend's face as Spot rubbed his hands together nervously. "Spot!"  
  
Spot glanced back and quickly looked away. "What?"  
  
"What's the job?" Jack demanded, impatient.  
  
Spot shrugged. "It's...it's in Brooklyn. Digging."  
  
"Digging?"  
  
Spot rolled his eyes and turned to face him. "Underwater digging for the bridge."  
  
"Underwater?"  
  
"Yeah, you take this elevator thing down one of the legs of the bridge to this thing called a caisson and there's this maintenance work." Nervously, Spot watched for Jack's reaction.  
  
"Wait a second," Jack said, backtracking what Spot had said. "Why are people digging for the Brooklyn Bridge? Spot, it was built 20 years ago."  
  
"Maintenance, I told you." Spot stood up. "This guy I know will let us work for a few days, but probably not much longer. There's not much work, see." He tossed his head. "C'mon, let's go." Without waiting for Jack, Spot started to walk away, moving so erratically with his head bent that he kept jostling people on the sidewalk. Jack ran to catch up to him, squinting in the dawn light.  
  
"So what's the problem?" He was slightly out of breath, but Spot had just stuck his hands into his pockets and kept walking.  
  
"I hate it there." He spat onto the ground before glancing up at Jack. "There's no light, you're practically working in the dark, and the whole thing feels wet, like the water's going to rush in any second. You can't breathe, because they have to pump warm air into the thing, and you're down at the bottom of the river, so the pressure kills you." He paused, his eyes narrowed. "I went there before I became a newsie, when I was just a kid and they needed little hands to dump out the buckets of mud. It's hell."  
  
Jack said nothing in reply but doubled his pace to match Spot's. Despite his obvious hatred for the place, Spot wasn't lengthening the time it took to reach the bridge. In fact, Jack marveled at how quickly they reached the massive Brooklyn Bridge from his small apartment. He looked at the span of the bridge; dozens of people were walking across, some pausing to look out at the East River. Jack realized suddenly he had never noticed the two legs, one in Manhattan, the other in Brooklyn, which supported the suspension bridge.  
  
"The caisson is what's underneath the supports. It's cramped, even thought there's headroom of about a dozen feet, maybe more, and everything's coated with mud. No one talks." Spot was explaining to Jack as he led the way to the workers' entrance.  
  
"Why?"  
  
Spot stopped and looked at Jack. "You'll see." He turned around again and walked through a door.  
  
Inside the room was lit with ghostly yellow lamps and right away Jack could hear the whir of machinery and feel huge rushes of heat. As he examined the room, Spot talked in a low voice to a man behind a desk.  
  
"Hey Jack!" he called a moment later. "Get over here."  
  
A big man, not a worker but still filthy, stared beadily at the two of them. "Pressure down there gets bad. Coming up, some guys get caisson disease, some call it the 'bends.' Worst pain you'll ever have. Either of you have colds?"  
  
Jack and Spot exchanged glances but both of them shook their heads, Jack lying--he had had a cold for the past week and was just getting out of it, although still stuffed up.  
  
"Good," the man was saying. "Then sign the register, I'll send you down with one of the guys who'll get you started." He pulled out a bound red book, opened it to a page and handed Spot a pen. "Welcome to the Brooklyn Bridge."  
  
In another minute, Jack and Spot were outfitted with shovels and small lamps and were waiting for the elevator to come up with a man in his middle ages, short and squat with muscles.  
  
"First time?" he asked them. Jack said yes while Spot explained he used to work on the bridge. The man gave a low whistle and turned to Jack. "Good luck, kid."  
  
Jack's upper lip curled as he gave the man an angry stare. At that moment, the elevator door opened and the three of them climbed in. Jack could tell he was falling and immediately he felt incredible pain over his ears. He winced without being able to help himself and the man smiled grimly.  
  
"Always gets you," he said. "The pressure, I mean. We're going down so fast it's like a big fist just squeezes you, wrings you out. I've been working here every day for three years and I still feel it."  
  
Jack could tell them man was having difficulty speaking, and he could believe it. His tongue felt thick and dry and the air pushed down on him. The pain in his ears intensified; he suddenly had a strange sensation in his mouth.  
  
"That's why they ask if you got a cold," the man continued, his voice much higher and strangled. "If you're stuffed up, pressure inside your head gets too high, serious problems happen." He nodded to Jack, who was leaning against the wall of the elevator with his hand over his ear, and to Spot, who looked much paler than he had ten minutes ago.  
  
The elevator shuddered to a stop and the man told Jack and Spot they would have to wait until the pressure equalized. Pretending he knew what this meant, Jack nodded, because his mouth didn't seem to be working right, and took a step forward away from the wall.  
  
"Here we are," said the man as the doors opened. Jack could see they were in a room with high ceilings, the cement floor slick with mud. His first step off the elevator he realized something was in his mouth, almost like badly tasting liquid. He looked at Spot before bending over a metal bucket on the floor and sputtering out mouthfuls of thick, black blood.  
  
"Warned you," the man said slowly, staring down at him.  
  
Jon was working the afternoon shift when he saw his best friend walk through the door. But instead of grinning, happy to see him, he paused and almost dropped the plates he was carrying. It took him two seconds to set them on their respective tables and another two to cross over the restaurant.  
  
"Shit, Race," he said softly.  
  
Race swayed slightly in front of Jon, not quite seeing him through one of his swollen eyes, the other squeezed tight to keep out the falling blood from the gash over his right eyebrow. Purple bruises covered his bare arms and Jon could see cuts crisscrossing his chest and neck.  
  
"Kid?" His voice was creaky.  
  
"I'm taking five minutes!" Jon called to the owner as he pushed and dragged Race out of Tibby's. They were heading to an empty bench nearby when Race put his hand on Jon's arm.  
  
"I can't see anything, my eyes are open and I can't see," he muttered, his face white and ashen. "I need to sit-" Without warning, his knees buckled and he began to crumple to the sidewalk. Jon grabbed him underneath his arms.  
  
"Race?" he asked frantically. His heart pounded in his ears as he tried to help his friend. "Race! Christ, wake up!" Race's whole body was shaking in Jon's arms; Jon could feel the tremors through to his shoulders, and Race still had his eyes closed, still wasn't waking up.  
  
"Jesus! Help me!" Jon cried. "Somebody help me!"  
  
Jack took two large bounds up the front steps of the Lodging House to the stoop. He turned the doorknob and paused. The familiar thud of wood against metal told him the door was locked. Confused, he checked his watch then held t up to his ear to make sure it was ticking. Nine-fifteen. The upstairs windows, he realized, were dark, and he wondered if his watch really was broken as he knocked loudly on the door.  
  
A few seconds later, the screech and shudder of an opening lock caused Jack to stop pounding, and Kloppman's old, tired face came into view.  
  
"Jack?" He rubbed his eyes in the same way Jack shook his watch. "Well, how are you?"  
  
All formalities aside, Jack pushed his way through and looked grimly at the Lodging House's dark common room.  
  
"New rule?" Jack asked. "You've been closing the doors at 10 since I first got here. The 9:45 rush, remember?"  
  
Kloppman picked up his candle from his desk as he shrugged. "Everyone comes in at 8 o'clock. I don't bother keeping the doors open past then."  
  
At the words '8 o'clock,' Jack's stomach knotted. "Kloppman, what's going on here?"  
  
As if on cue, a small light suddenly glowed from the top of the stairs to the bunkroom. Jack and Kloppman looked up to see the light illuminating a deeply shadowed face.  
  
"Jag," Jack muttered.  
  
Jag slowly descended the stairs, smiling wryly. "Go to bed, old man, and lock the door."  
  
Without letting his eyes leave Jag's face, Kloppman bristled slightly and mumbled, "You know I don't like fights between newsies, but seeing as you're not one, get 'im good." He shuffled off to the door and his room as he called out, "Sure, sure, lock the door...gotta lock it and go back to bed, sure, sure."  
  
Jack kept his glaring eyes on Jag.  
  
"Kelly," Jack said, trying hard to conceal a grimace. "You're not allowed here. This is a place for newsies."  
  
Jack barely acknowledged him, but gave him a slow, cold stare. "Last I checked, you got your own place."  
  
Jag was now level with Jack, one step above on the stairs. "Yeah, I'll get there soon enough. Gotta watch over the kids, though." His voice sounded sharp and rough, and Jack was reminded of how he got his name.  
  
"Kids?" Jack asked. "Acting sort of over-protective, aren't you?"  
  
Laughing, Jag walked down the remaining stair and stood eye-to-eye with him. "Don't think you should be calling other people over-protective."  
  
"I've been hearing a lot about you, none-"  
  
"Oh, I've been hearing a lot about you, too, Jack." Jag raised the candle to his face and circled him. "You had a little accident, didn't you? Which ear was it?" He leaned close to Jack's left. "Boo. Did you hear tha-"  
  
Right before he could finish, Jack had grabbed his shirtfront and pulled him back in front of him. "Making them sell more. Promising to feed them more, protect them, give them special attention if they pass along a few of their pennies to you. Do you even sell anymore?"  
  
Angry and indignant, Jag pulled himself from Jack's grasp and straightened his shirt. "I have other things to do. And none of them seem to be complaining." He tossed his head in the direction of the bunkroom.  
  
"No," Jack agreed, "they wouldn't complain. Not when you've got guys the size of boulders to shut them up."  
  
Jag crossed over to Jack's right, muttering something, his eyes dark and narrow. Jack only realized Jag was speaking when he noticed with a small jolt how much hearing he'd lost in his right ear due to the pressure from working under the bridge. He remained silent when Jag stopped speaking. Jack felt the heat rise on his face but he refused to give Jag the pleasure of asking to him repeat himself.  
  
Instead, Jack sneered and growled at him, "I'll come back, and I'll keep coming back until you're gone. Just wait."  
  
"With pleasure, Kelly." Jag looked at his retreating back with disgust and when the door closed, he angrily went to lock it, breathing hard. He placed the candle on Kloppman's desk and ran up the stairs to the dark bunkroom, snapping on the lights.  
  
"Get out of bed, all of you!" He barked. When they had all groaned and moaned to their feet, Jag walked slowly up and down the corridor between the bunks. "No one, no one, goes to sleep until we find the dirty, cheap rats who snitched to Jack Kelly."  
  
In the dimness of the early night, Ivy Higgins sat beside her husband's bed, stroking his forehead and smoothing down his hair. Her fingers, like the rest of her skin, were pale, and Race had happily teased her that she was whiter than paper. Race's forehead made her fingers look dark.  
  
The doctor had just been in to see him. He confirmed Race's dangerously slow heartbeat, which Ivy had already checked with the ubiquitous gold pocket watch. But instead of Race's condition, Ivy was thinking of the other thing the doctor had mentioned--Race had needed several broken bones set, stitches, and would be in the hospital for a few days. All this amounted to a large bill, and Ivy was painfully reminded that their money was nearly gone.  
  
She had become a money fanatic now that they had some, saving and calculating with every paycheck. However, her calculations hadn't included a month-long strike and baby on the way. Whatever small emergency money she'd saved up wasn't big enough to last more than a few meals and she couldn't console herself by thinking, "If only I'd had time to save enough..."  
  
She ran her hand through Race's curly hair, frowning as she realized unless she herself came up with something, she would have to borrow. The thought made her angry. Throughout their entire relationship, Race and Ivy worked independently, relying only on each other and proud that they could support themselves. If now, not even a year into their marriage, they were having major financial problems, they would resent it for years.  
  
Without wanting to, so unwillingly, Ivy thought of another alternative. That it even occurred to her made Ivy stop to chide herself, to say forget it, but as she added and subtracted and added that big amount, she knew it was her best shot.  
  
Three years ago, when she was just saved from the streets by Bullet, she'd first heard about a bank account. The way Bullet worked was through paid contracts with clients. The money from these contracts was divided into fourths, one-fourth each going to Bullet and the upkeep of the house, the remaining half going to the thief or thieves who did the stealing. Ivy, being already fed and clothed by Bullet, had no need for this extra cash, so it was deposited into an account under a different name, all the information stowed in Bullet's files. She had never touched a penny before, not so much because she had forgotten it but because when she left the Gang, she was so furious to be free that she left the money there, untouched, although she guessed there was probably over a thousand dollars.  
  
"It should be burned," she muttered.  
  
"What?"  
  
Startled, Ivy jumped around to see Jon, silhouetted in the door. She turned around and stood up before leaning over to kiss Race's cheek.  
  
"I have to go. Watch him for me." She spoke with a command that told Jon it was pointless to ask where she was going.  
  
"All- all right Ivy." Jon felt a sudden pang as she swept by him, remembering painfully in her voice how she had acted over a year ago, before she was even dating Race, when she was scared to tell anyone anything, so obviously hiding something. In two seconds she'd brushed away 13 months of a sweet, compassionate girl, leaving no more a trace to her existence than the slight, soft smell of her perfume.  
  
Bullet leaned his head back and shut his eyes. He swayed slightly in his chair, listening to the stretched squeak of the springs. He stopped. Everything was perfectly still and silent for a moment before he heard it again: a soft sound like quiet footsteps creeping in through the splintered front door.  
  
Without a thought, Bullet licked his fingertips and squeezed the flame of his candle, twisting hard on the wick so there would be no telling smoke. He got up from his chair, slowly, discreetly, and stood against the corner wall, out of the light from the streetlamps coming in through his window. The footsteps were still coming, softer than Bullet's breaths, only audible to him because he had trained too many to walk like that: move the pressure of your weight evenly at all times, rolling your feet in constant, steady motion.  
  
He counted the fourteen footsteps up the stairs, heard their slight shuffle to the right, around the walkway, closer to him. The door opened suddenly, although Bullet was expecting it, and the intruder didn't pause to glance around the room as they swung the door shut again and motioned towards his desk.  
  
"What are you doing here?" He expected her to jump, the same way he knew she would struggle when he met her in the ally. She didn't move, only tensed her body and lifted her fist, one hand curled instinctively around the small bump at her stomach.  
  
Angry that he had misjudged her, Bullet snapped as he struck a match to re- light the candle, "You're not here to say you'll help me find out about O'Loughlin."  
  
She was silent, her eyes narrow and reproachful.  
  
For some reason, her silence, which Bullet had known to expect when she was confronted, only angered him more. "What do you have to be angry about?" He pulled out his chair and sat down, staring at her. "I have nothing of yours."  
  
"I thought you were leaving." Ivy's lips were strained as she talked, her face still tense and scornful.  
  
"I had other plans," Bullet shot back. "You have no right to be angry," he continued, "and since this is still my property, you have no right to be here. I have nothing that you would want and nothing that belongs to you. Now get out."  
  
Slightly taken aback, Ivy paused and pursed her lips. "I..."  
  
"What?" The room was quiet for a moment. "What? You're interrupting me and I have work to do." He stared at her, hard, reading her face. "You want money, don't you? You came back for your financial papers. Nice to see your contempt of your past doesn't include a couple thousand dollars." He gave her a severe look, waiting for her to say something else.  
  
"Is that what you want me to say?" Ivy asked, anger obvious in her quiet voice. "I can't last out there as a normal person? You used to manipulate me into saying things before, Bullet, but I'm smarter now." She took a breath, surprised at her own daring but not showing her feelings to him. "How I got that money is of no consequence. It belongs to me and I need it."  
  
Bullet laughed derisively and stood up. "Fine. If you really want it so badly. I changed the account names and numbers." He took out a pencil and piece of paper and wrote rapidly as he spoke. "This is all the information you need, and the signature should match your own. Oh, and the money's not tagged, either, because I used my account and there was no problem." He held the paper out. "Here, take it." He blinked calmly, but the paper trembled with checked rage.  
  
Ivy's face prickled and burned with shame. Slowly, she reached out to take the paper, half afraid he would snatch it away. "What did you spend the money on?"  
  
"What do you care?" Bullet muttered, sitting back down. "Leave."  
  
"No!" Indignant, Ivy stood up to Bullet, placing her hands on his desk. "No. Get angry. Let loose. You pushed me before, why don't you just slap me this time? What are you so angry about?"  
  
"I told you to leave." Bullet bent his head down to avoid her stare and clenched his jaw.  
  
Ivy walked around his desk and reached out with her small hands to grab his shoulders. "What is it?" she demanded, trying to turn him to make him face her.  
  
Without warning, Bullet's arms snapped to life and he clutched her wrists firmly, so hard he could feel each bone digging into his palm as he squeezed tighter. "You are the last person I want to see," he hissed. He stood up, jerking her closer to him as he moved. "You, with all your highbrow morals and ideals, pure as snow. Your happy marriage can't be doing so well now, can it?" He screwed up his face and shut his eyelids tightly. Slowly, he let go of her wrists, and upon feeling the pins and needles in his own hands, realized how much he must have hurt her. "I'm sorry," he breathed, eyes still closed.  
  
Forcing himself to do so, Bullet opened his eyes, and looked down into Ivy's face. Tears rimmed her eyes as she blinked, fast, to make them disappear. Red and purple bracelets were already forming on her wrists, but she merely stared at him, waiting.  
  
"I'm sorry," he said again. On an impulse he had trained to ignore, Bullet reached out and pulled her close to him, wrapping her in the first embrace they had ever shared, feeling distinctly the tiny bump on her stomach through her thin dress. Without realizing it, he was kissing her, and for one brief incredible moment, he had nothing else to worry about-- the woman he had loved, loved him back; there was no plan he had to work on; no deadline; no husband waiting for her; no girlfriend searching for him; no problems for the first time in his life.  
  
"Stop," Ivy said, pushing herself away. She had a strange look on her face. "We can't."  
  
Bullet lowered his eyes and nodded. He let her go, the same way he always let her go, the same way he knew he would always have to. She said something that he couldn't hear over the ringing in his ears and he turned away as she made her excuses to leave. The door closed, the footsteps retreated, the remains of the front door were still, and Bullet Tymer picked up his chair and threw it out his window.  
  
In a cellar in Queens, a little less than a dozen young men and women sat in a loose circle, waiting. The tall boy from the Bronx was talking with a pretty girl from Greenwich Village, and the two Queens boys were lounging with native ease. At the center of everything stood Jack, murmuring to himself as he counted heads and mentally checked off who was there.  
  
"Two missing," he muttered, disappointed. He glanced at Spot, who had just come up with the same tally.  
  
Rather than wait for the last two, Jack cleared his throat and waved his hands to get everyone's attention. "Most of you know each other," he started, "and we don't have time for introductions anyway, so-"  
  
"Cowboy," the tall boy said, "we all know why we're here."  
  
"Yeah, we need to get rid of that little snot from the east side." The pretty girl laughed at her own joke, breaking up the tension in her room.  
  
Jack grinned at her. "Brilliant, Tess. Couldn't have said it better. So," he looked at the others. "Any ideas?"  
  
"Let's just kick the crap outta him," someone called from the back. When everyone turned around at him, Jack wasn't surprised to see Bosti, the Harlem leader, staring back defiantly. "That's what you shoulda done a long time ago, 'stead of calling us all here."  
  
Jack was silent for a few seconds as people called out loudly their own opinions. Once they had quieted down, he spoke up. "Don't think I didn't want to," he said. "And you all know me, you know I would if I thought it would help. But there's a bigger problem here." He paused, glanced at Spot, and went on. "Most of you remember Jag from when he sold with just some of his boys in Lower Manhattan. Didn't hurt anyone, kept to himself. But now he's trying to gain control of every borough and every newsie in the city. It was May when he started, same day I left, and now, three months later, he's already taken over all the large groups in Lower Manhattan and pockets of newsies in the Bronx, Queens, and Staten Island."  
  
"How'd he do it?" one of the Queens boys asked.  
  
Jack frowned. "Muscle. See, the boys that used to sell with Jag are all older, seventeen, eighteen. When I left, I had no one to take over, and so Jag walks in with his group of strong newsies and there's no protest."  
  
"Why not?" One of the quieter girls, leader of a small group in Upper Manhattan, looked at Jack as if she were trying to understand him. "Why wouldn't your newsies fight him?"  
  
"Why would they?" Spot had jumped in to defend Jack. "Most of the Lower Manhattan boys are young, and the older ones are so old that they don't want to be leader. Plus the fifteen and sixteen year olds, the ones that should be leading Manhattan, can't stand up to Jag and his sacks of muscle. So Jag is on top and now that he's made friends with the older newsies, he's bullying the younger ones to like him. The problem isn't just with Jag anymore, it's all Manhattan."  
  
"It's not 'all Manhattan,'" the girl corrected. "My newsies have never even heard of Jag."  
  
"Mine have."  
  
Jack turned to see his friend Hudson walk into the room and close the door. Hudson and his fierce and loyal group sold to the tourists in Coney Island. Jack had a large amount of respect for him, and his finally showing up lifted Jack's spirits.  
  
"Sorry I'm late," Hudson said. "But I had a problem." He shifted his gaze towards Jack and Spot, and Jack knew it had something to do with Jag.  
  
"Have you seen Eric?" Jack asked discreetly.  
  
"Yeah," Hudson murmured back, "he's not coming."  
  
Unwillingly, for a moment, Jack frowned. Eric, leader of a tough group on the southern shores of Manhattan, was an asset to taking Jag down. His group fringed the areas where Lower Manhattan newsies sold, and Jack had already started forming a plan to strengthen the south by aligning with Eric...  
  
"Wait." Spot had walked between Jack and Hudson and looked at both of them. "Why isn't he coming?"  
  
Hudson's eyes flickered around the group of tense faces. "You can all guess." He paused for a moment until the muttered swear words abated. "Jag told me for him. Seems like they've joined up, for whatever reason. He was trying to get me to do the same, but my boys answered for me." He raised his arm, showing a bandage wrapped around his forearm. "We fought him off. Don't think he's planning on coming back."  
  
"See what I mean?" Bosti called again. "All we gotta do is sneak up one night, ambush the place and-"  
  
"-break the legs of about 20 ten-year-olds," Jack finished. "Maybe you didn't hear me--Manhattan is swarming with kids, and there's no way I'm going to allow you all to soak them." He shook his head. "No, what we have to do is get him from the inside. He's trying to do that same thing--sneak up on us individually and weaken us. First thing's first, we need to get friendly with some of Jag's closest."  
  
"I'll do it," Tess said brightly. "Some of them are cute." She grinned at the other girl, who only rolled her eyes and looked at Jack.  
  
"No," she said, "first thing we need to do is get a leader for Brooklyn so we don't have another problem." Glancing toward Spot, "You should find a replacement."  
  
Spot shrugged. "Brooklyn's already made it clear they don't want Jag around."  
  
The girl frowned slightly and shook her head. "That's not what I meant. Two girls from my house tried to get into Brooklyn to see another friend. When they were asked who they were they replied 'newsies from Manhattan.' Instead of realizing there is more than one group in Manhattan, the Brooklyn boys got together and... they attacked them."  
  
Jack didn't even have to look at his friend's face to guess his expression. Spot had taught them a few basic rules--don't hurt kids, crips, or girls. Jack's first guess had been correct; without a leader to keep them in check the Brooklyn boys were going wild.  
  
"I'll fix it," Spot growled, his teeth clenched, jaw squared. "What's your name?"  
  
"Elena Dawes," the girl answered. "The boys attacked my girls Betty and Ruth."  
  
"Hey," the tall boy stepped forward again, "some of us have a long walk back, and I wanna get this resolved."  
  
Laughing, a muscular boy pushed the tall boy back, "You got something to say, Stalk?"  
  
Without a smile, Stalk turned to the group, "Yeah. Jag came to see me too, and I didn't say I'd join him and I didn't say no. But a connected newsie system sounds pretty good to me, what's the downside?" He stared at Jack, challenging him.  
  
Eyes flashing, Jack spat back, "Because he wants to be in charge. Which means you've got no say in where your kids sell or how many they sell or what they eat or anything! And once you've joined him, once you've said yes to his offer, he sends in a few of his muscles to keep down the complaints until you're in the same problem Manhattan is."  
  
Stalk laughed. "No," he said, "Won't happen to me. My boys are loyal."  
  
Jack felt small shivers run up his back and cringe his scalp. "Yeah, and that's just the problem." He grimaced and went on. "Thought mine were, too."  
  
Ivy fumbled with a shirt cuff for a moment before looking up and smiling. "It's nice having you here," she said to Race, "but do you always have to be underfoot?"  
  
Moving back so they weren't nose to nose, Race frowned and sat back down on the couch. "Maybe if you'd actually let me walk outside I wouldn't get in your way."  
  
"I told you before," Ivy replied, shrugging and getting back to her work, "you can go on the roof and sit out there, but if you're wandering around the city and something happens to you..."  
  
"So why don't you come with me?" Race was lying on the couch, supported by his elbow. "You're not doing anything here, anyway."  
  
Indignant, Ivy showed him the shirt she was sewing was his. "I'd rather not have us going around in rags." Getting no response from Race, she picked up her needle again and started patching his collar.  
  
"I'm bored!" Race shouted, completely exasperated.  
  
"Get used to it; you're stuck here for another few weeks."  
  
Race, obviously not satisfied, flopped back down and stared up at the ceiling. After a few minutes of silence had passed, and Ivy was just about to start with her skirt, he spoke up.  
  
"Hey," he said thoughtfully. "How did we pay for the hospital bills?"  
  
Ivy half-pretended she hadn't heard him as she shifted her seat and bent over the skirt. He called her name and she glanced up. "Oh," she said vaguely. "I had some money saved away." Bullet would have been horrified at the way she lied, because instantly Race could tell she had.  
  
Neither one of them spoke for a little while and it was more than a few seconds until Ivy coughed and the needle and thimble clicked again.  
  
"Oh," Race said, as if from far away, "You had some saved away." They were quiet again, as he slowly fell asleep to the rhythmic clicks of her needle.  
  
Spot stared up at the shanty boarding house as he waited for the front door to open. A moment later, the door opened an inch, just wide enough for a middle-aged woman to stick out an unusually long and crooked nose. From behind a pair of metal-rimmed glasses, her two small eyes blinked as she waited for Spot to explain himself.  
  
"I need to speak with Elena Dawes," Spot told her, shifting uneasily under her beady stare. "My name's Spot Conlon."  
  
The door opened a fraction wider. "You can speak with her in the morning." The woman's voice was surprisingly high, although Spot expected it to be sharp and condescending. "Gentleman callers are not allowed after 9 o'clock. It's too late tonight. Good evening." She moved to close the door as Spot put out it his hand to stop her.  
  
"Wait! Hey!"  
  
She had slammed the door on one of Spot's hands without realizing it.  
  
"I'm the leader of the Brooklyn newsies, not a gentleman caller!" Spot angrily pounding on the door with his good hand, and when it opened again he was still sullenly sucking his fingers. "Thank-"  
  
"You're the leader of the Brooklyn newsies!" The woman had opened the door entirely, so that Spot could see the room behind her. It was much like the Manhattan Lodging House, except in a corner a small fire blazed and the many couches and chairs were draped with young girls, most glancing at Spot.  
  
"Come in here!" The woman grabbed the front of Spot's shirt and pulled in forward into the building. "Come see what your newsies did." Not allowing him to speak, she dragged him to the back of the room. "Betty! Ruth! Look, now, just look." The last part was directed to him, as the woman motioned to a pair of girls sitting together. Spot remembered their names from when Elena mentioned them, but it was obvious they'd been soaked, and Spot, so attuned to Brooklyn's fighting styles, had no doubts who was responsible.  
  
One of the girls was obviously very pretty, or had been, before her nose was broken and some of her hair pulled out. The other one's face was more or less unscathed, save a few scratches across her cheek, but her arm had been broken and there was an ugly cluster of bruises near her shoulders and neck. Spot gazed at the two girls, careful not to let the pity inside him show.  
  
"I'm sorry," he said slowly and steadily. He turned to the woman. "But that's why I'm here, to talk to Elena about what happened and try to fix it."  
  
"Spot?"  
  
Tearing himself away from the two girls, Spot looked over his shoulder to see Elena coming slowly down the stairs. "Hi Elena."  
  
She glanced at the woman for her reaction, but the woman only stared harder at Spot and scowled. Frowning, Elena put a hand on his shoulder and walked to the opposite side of the room.  
  
"I can't talk right now," she said, her eyes darting to the other girls in the room, assuring them that Spot was all right and allowed to be there. "Can you come back in the morning?"  
  
"I came because I'm going to pick a new leader for Brooklyn."  
  
Confused, Elena's eyebrows knitted in thought. "You don't need me for that."  
  
Spot shrugged. "It wouldn't hurt. They'll act better if they know you're there." He didn't really think they would, but something made him think that she'd be a good judge of character for choosing a leader. "Can't you come tonight?"  
  
She shook her head, frowning slightly. "No, I told you, I can't right now. How about the morning?"  
  
This time Spot shook his head. "No good, the boys will all be selling. Listen," he leaned in closer, glancing at the middle-aged woman who was watching them suspiciously, "tomorrow night, meet me 7 o'clock at the Brooklyn Bridge."  
  
Worried, Elena glanced at him. "But, it's dangerous there. If you're late-"  
  
"I'll be early," Spot assured her. "7 o'clock. Don't forget." With that, he turned on his heel, fitting his cap over his head. He gave a final look back at the woman, already herding Elena upstairs, and walked quickly out the door.  
  
Ivy was interrupted from making dinner by a few heavy, short knocks on the door. She opened it and with quick, uncertain smiles the two men waiting in the hall took off their caps.  
  
"Ah, madam?" one said, his speech heavy with an Irish accent. "We came from the track, and, och miss, don't be thinking we had a bit in that shameless attack on Racetrack. Sure an' we would have helped him but, well, we did have to mind the horses."  
  
It was easy to tell he was lying, and Ivy guessed it was more likely he didn't want to help Race out of fear the mob would turn on him next. Ivy remained silent, still deciding whether she should trust them. "Well?" she asked, leaning against the door.  
  
The two men glanced at each other and then the talkative one spoke again. "Ah, we just wanted to speak with him, tell him what's been happening and such."  
  
Before he was even finished, Ivy started to object, but the man interrupted her.  
  
"Now, ma'am, I do understand where you have a mind to be suspicious, but we wanted just a talk for a bit and-"  
  
"You didn't let me finish," Ivy didn't bother hiding her irritation anymore, "Race isn't home. He'll be back later." She stared at them hard, her eyes angry and she knew they wanted to be invited in. Inwardly, she sighed, but shrugged her shoulders and told them they might as well come in and wait.  
  
"Ah, thanks," said one man, while the other nodded his gratitude.  
  
"Sure an' you could spare a cuppa?" asked the round man. He took a seat on the couch and motioned for the other man to join him. "This is Chuck Salveson, my name's Quinn O'Shannon and you must be Ivy."  
  
Ivy didn't want to respond but she knew he was going to attempt more small talk and handed him his tea abruptly.  
  
"Excuse me," she started, trying, although not too hard, to hide the annoyance in her voice. "What is this all about? What news is so important you risked your own necks to come over here? I thought all you strikers said not to visit the 'traitor's' house."  
  
Not for the last time, the men passed anxious looks to each other. They had been told Race's wife was a sweet, quiet woman; they hadn't expected to be spoken to so harshly. In an effort to placate her, O'Shannon tried to reach and put one of his large hands on hers, but she jerked away quickly, causing him to swing his arm out and knock over his teacup.  
  
"Ah, miss, very sorry, I just-"  
  
Ivy was saved from his lackluster apologies by the door opening and Race, out of breath from his long climb up the stairs, stepping inside. He barely registered the two track workers and his clearly annoyed wife before O'Shannon spoke again, the tea still forming puddles on the table.  
  
"Racetrack!" he called out, and Ivy frowned again, realizing only someone who didn't know Race well would call him by his full nickname.  
  
"O'Shannon... Charles..." Race muttered. "I haven't seen either of you too much lately." He took off his jacket and leaned against Ivy's chair. "What are you two doing here?"  
  
O'Shannon got to his feet, his weight slowing him down slightly. "We came to tell you, well, the strike is over. You have your job back."  
  
"Over? What happened? Who caved?"  
  
"They did," O'Shannon said, puffing himself up with pride. "They promised salary increases and everyone got their job back."  
  
Ivy, who had been following the strike in the newspaper, frowned. "That doesn't seem like a good idea. Weren't they cutting wages and jobs back because they were losing money? How do salary increases keep the track running?"  
  
The two men looked surprised to see a woman speaking of economics, but O'Shannon recovered and smiled benignly at Ivy. "Now, dear, I wouldn't think the strike leaders and track owners would make a bad decision."  
  
Ivy looked at Race for support; he still looked dazed at the news, but reached for Ivy's hand and squeezed it. He felt she was more right than O'Shannon, but clearly wanted to avoid a discussion on track politics.  
  
"Really, we just wanted to give you the news," O'Shannon continued. "Charles has been looking after your horses, you know, and so has Jessop and some of the other men. They're all doing fine. And you can report to work tomorrow." He waited for Race to respond, but Race merely nodded once at the news.  
  
"If that's all," Race said, letting his words trail off. He motioned very slightly to the door.  
  
O"Shannon and his friend got the picture quickly. Still apologizing for the tea, O'Shannon crossed to the door, opened it, and hurried outside, glad to be gone from the angry couple.  
  
For a moment, Ivy and Race were silent as she took a rag and mopped up the tea. "Are you going back?" Ivy asked coolly. She was hoping he'd say no, although she knew they needed the money.  
  
Race seemed to be thinking along the same lines because he said, very softly, "Ivy? The money for the hospital bills, is there any left over?"  
  
She frowned and looked at him. "I didn't want to tell you where it came from. Yes, there is some left over. Enough for you to quit your job today and never work again for the rest of your life. But I don't want to touch it." She saw the shock on his face and her frown grew deeper. "The money...I have it from-"  
  
"Working for Bullet?" Race guessed. At her surprise, he laughed and touched her hair. "Do you think you're the only one who can figure things out? No, you're right--I don't want it either." He made a face. "Ah, guess I have to go back to the track, then, huh?"  
  
"But..." Ivy answered, slowly, "how long can the track stay in business? It must be running out of money, and now that the strike is over, I doubt it will last for much longer."  
  
Race shrugged. "I think you're right. Guess I'll see what happens, though, and take care of it when it does."  
  
Although not quite satisfied, Ivy had to accept Race's answer. She watched as he strolled into their bedroom to get a sweater and hummed as if news that he could go back to the track, even though it was still dangerous to him, was nothing important at all. Ivy sighed. Sometimes she could never understand her husband.  
  
A long, thin stream of smoke shot up from Spot's lips, swirling in a light breeze. Watching the smoke curl up one of the wires of the bridge, Spot smiled and took another drag on the cigarette. When he looked back at the crowd, he saw Elena.  
  
"You're late," he said, throwing his cigarette over the side of the bridge.  
  
She shrugged and apologized. "Daisy forgot something at the house." She motioned towards a young girl standing just behind her.  
  
Spot raised his eyebrows and gave her an appraising look. "What's she doing here?"  
  
Annoyed, Elena scowled at him and took the younger girl's hand. "She's my responsibility today. I couldn't just leave her with someone else." She started to walk towards Brooklyn, Spot just barely catching up.  
  
"Does she say anything? Hey kid, cat gotch yer tongue?" He tapped her lightly on the shoulder but the little girl shied away from him.  
  
Stopping, Elena turned to him. "Stop," she said softly, glancing down at Daisy. "Two years ago she got into an accident. She can't speak."  
  
Feeling entirely stupid, Spot stood dumbfounded for a moment before he started to walk with them again. He allowed himself one small look at the girl and faintly, through her dark summer tan, he could see a jagged scar running down one of the sides of her neck.  
  
The tension was awful, something Spot never allowed to happen. "So, the Brooklyn Lodging House is close by. Right on the wharfs. You can see-"  
  
"I know." Whether she was still annoyed at his earlier comment or his overall treatment of her, Spot couldn't tell. She must not have meant it, however, because the next time she spoke it was much softer. "I've been there before. My friend Nails is a Brooklyn newsie."  
  
Spot knew Nails well. He was strong, agile, and smart. If Spot were to choose right then, Nails would become the next leader, and, knowing the people Nails was friends with, Spot wasn't surprised to learn Elena was among them. Thinking about Nails made Spot think about other likely candidates, and he was so caught up in assessing strengths and weaknesses that he didn't even realize he had reached the wharf until he heard one of the boys yell a greeting.  
  
"Spot! Come back for a visit?"  
  
"Get the others into the pit, Obbie. I have to talk to everyone." Spot, inspired by his years of giving orders, felt the thrill of being a newsie leader come back. For a split second, he almost wished he hadn't left. But no, he was already twice the age of some of them, and if he didn't make a clean break now, he'd never want to leave.  
  
He led Elena and Daisy down one of the piers to a circular arena where the boys practiced fighting. It was slowly starting to fill with people, but Spot knew there should have been more people there already, training. The boys obviously had been skipping practices.  
  
In another minute, everyone, more or less, was there, watching Spot. A rumor had quickly circulated that he was back to lead them, but most guessed the truth--he was there to name his successor.  
  
"I've been hearing a lot about you boys," Spot said evenly. He didn't raise his voice, and Elena marveled at what a leader he truly was, that each and every one of the usually rowdy boys listened intently to what he had to say.  
  
"That scum Jag came 'round here and you gave him a regular Brooklyn welcome." He paused for cheers. "You've been protecting the borders, defending the land, watching out for each other. So then why, for the first time in my life, am I ashamed to be counted as a Brooklyn newsie?" He stared hard at them. "Soaking girls?" Unwillingly, he glanced back at Elena, who only tightened the muscles in her face. "You boys are falling apart. I gave you rules to follow, easy rules. You're getting lazy. All I have to do is look at you to tell you're not practicing anymore. Talk is of a full-scale newsie war on the brink and you guys can't care enough to practice a few punches a couple nights a week. The Brooklyn newsies are a thing to be feared. Admired. Respected. They'll tear their enemies apart and they're loyal as hell to their friends. I worked you hard, you worked yourselves hard, and now, when it really counts, you want to give up? Let this go?"  
  
"We need you, Spot!" someone shouted.  
  
"No." Spot shook his head. "You need your own leader. You have to pick."  
  
"Whoever you choose, we'll follow." One of the older boys, standing near Spot looked up at him, pleading. Spot could hear a chorus of agreement but again he shook his head.  
  
"You pick," he said. "Come on, shout out some names. Toby? Jim?" He strained to hear the names being called out, inviting some of them to the stage.  
  
"Are any of them boys you would have picked?" Elena asked discreetly.  
  
Frowning, Spot shook his head slightly. "All muscles, no brains."  
  
"What about Nails?"  
  
Spot had to admit, he was sorry Nails hadn't been called. "I won't pick him," Spot explained, "not until someone shouts out his name."  
  
Elena raised her eyebrows. Slowly, she stepped to the edge of the crowd. "Nails!" she shouted.  
  
"Not you!" Spot scolded, but already people had joined her in shouting his name. Spot could pick out Nails waiting in the crowd. He flicked his eyes to the stage and Nails silently obeyed.  
  
Not wanting any other candidates, Spot raised his hands to tell them that was enough. He looked down the line of 6 boys, some of them smirking knowingly at the crowd, Nails and another boy, Blue, looking complacent. Spot didn't quite know how they'd whittle the group down from six to one, but he didn't let it show. Instead, he walked slowly down the line, letting the anxiety in the pit grow.  
  
He knew dissatisfaction with any of the leaders would cause rifts among the newsies. The leader had to be very well-liked. Nails was, that was true, but the favorite was hands down Con, a six-foot-two boulder who was rambunctious enough to cast him as the first suspect in whoever beat up the girls. Spot dismissed the others, leaving only Con and Nails.  
  
"Nails, here," he began, "is agile, quick, good at making plans, disciplined. He'd get you guys on track, keep you where I had you. And he's smart, so he'd probably have new ideas for all of you, and good ones." He paused, taking note of the cheers. "Now, Con," even louder cheers, Spot noticed, but not so because more people were cheering for him, but because the loudest people were. "Con's got a good head on his shoulders. He can follow what you give him. Maybe not so good at planning but good on improvisation. He's plenty strong, and a good leader can't be weak, but the best leaders can't rely on muscle alone. You have to have something else. So?" He paused again. "Who's it gonna be? Nails, or Con?"  
  
Spot hadn't tried hard to hide his emotions; it was obvious even to the youngest he preferred Nails to Con. Despite this, he could see some of the rowdiest boys cheering for Con and quieting Nails' fans.  
  
"Enough!" Spot said, raising his arms. "Those for Con, raise your hands." They could deceive by shouting louder, but they couldn't hide how few their numbers had become. Spot, guessing in his mind, figured it was a little less than a fourth of all the newsies. "Now, those for Nail." Most of the remaining newsies raised their hands, and, seeing how many of them were in agreement, started to cheer, yelling Nails' name.  
  
"Well," Spot said to him. "What do you think about that?"  
  
Nails smiled at him. "Thinking I have some good ideas about how to lead these boys." The crowd roared even harder. Like Spot had, Nails held up his arms to stop the shouting. He turned to Con, who did not look too pleased with the outcome of events. "For Brooklyn to remain strong, we need our strongest," Nails said to him. He spit on his hand and held it out. "We need you more as a guard and protector than a leader."  
  
Con looked at his hand, then at the other newsies, relishing the tenseness. Finally, he grinned, and the two spit shook, ending one of the worst periods of disunion and destruction the Brooklyn newsies had ever been through. Spot had missed the entire thing, choosing instead to slip out quietly with Elena and Daisy, content to hear the applause and singing swell at his back.  
  
"Want to get some dinner?" he asked as the three walked down the wharf. Grinning, forgetting who he was and who he was walking with, he placed his arm around Elena's waist.  
  
She shot a confused look at him and shied away from his arm. "I'm not easy." She grabbed Daisy's hand and left him behind.  
  
Hit with the sudden realization of what happened, Spot frowned at what he had done and jogged up to her. "Look, I didn't mean it like that." He studied her face carefully. "But I haven't been in Brooklyn for a week and I've got," he checked his pockets, "eighty-five cents burning a hole in my pocket and-"  
  
"Enough." Elena rolled her eyes and held out her hand for the money. "Eighty-five cents? How were you going to eat tonight on eighty-five cents?"  
  
Grinning now that she wasn't angry at him, Spot shrugged.  
  
The sounds of the excited Brooklyn newsies could still be heard, swelling over the wharf. Elena glanced back at the lights on the river, then down at Daisy, then over at Spot. She sighed. "I have three dollars that I made today but I still have to save forty cents for papers tomorrow."  
  
Spot tested her, smiling a bit, watching her smile grow little by little until they were, all three of them, laughing as they walked down the pier.  
  
Lying on her side, Ivy stared at the pattern of yellow swirls which covered the wallpaper in Anne's mother's small room. She was seven months along now, but her stomach was still so small you could hardly tell from behind. She felt the cold stethoscope trace across her skin and shivered slightly.  
  
"Oh."  
  
Ivy's attention snapped to Mrs. Stanton. "What?" she asked.  
  
There was no response but the lines on Mrs. Stanton's face drew tight in concern.  
  
"What?" Ivy demanded again, propping herself up on one elbow. Her head swam with possibilities, none of them pleasant. "What's wrong?"  
  
"Oh, Ivy." Mrs. Stanton took the stethoscope from out of her ears and stared at her while Ivy's heart clenched and trembled. "It's the heartbeat. I..." She looked confused and waved her arms, helpless.  
  
Ivy sat up now; she could feel hot blood rushing to her face, flooding her head and making her dizzy. "What's wrong with its heartbeat?"  
  
"I hear more than one."  
  
Puzzled, Ivy only stared at her. Finally, "Well, how many do you hear?"  
  
Mrs. Stanton's eyebrows fluttered and she sighed. "Well, three."  
  
"Three?" The panic that had floored her only a moment ago was replaced with waves of questions--how, why, what?  
  
"Have you thought about triplets? No? Hm... This has me worried... Ivy, you're not in the best stage to have triplets right now... Maybe you should just-"  
  
Ivy couldn't believe what she was hearing. Resolutely, she shook her head. "No," she said softly. "Never."  
  
Mrs. Stanton was trying to talk to her, to tell her the risks involved and the benefits of ending it now. "They'll be premature," she warned, "if they live at all. If you live at all."  
  
"Race would never stand for it," Ivy said, partly to herself, as she gathered her coat.  
  
"Maybe Race would rather have a wife alive than a family dead. Think of that."  
  
Turning, Ivy stared Mrs. Stanton in the face. "Race takes chances, he gambles."  
  
Mrs. Stanton frowned and placed her hand on Ivy's wrist. "Not with lives."  
  
"With lives," Ivy replied. She paused just long enough to shake off Mrs. Stanton's hand before walking out the door.  
  
The door slammed behind her as she automatically pulled her hair out from under the collar of her coat and let her hair fall freely on her shoulders. Her knees suddenly gave, she stumbled back and leaned against the door as she slid to the ground.  
  
Her hand fluttered to her stomach as she stammered croakily, "Three?"  
  
"Oh no." Jack laughed as he walked down the street. Jag and some his boys were saying good-night to Tess and some of her girls. By the way the boys were smiling and the girls passing looks between them, it was obvious Tess had followed Jack's instructions to a T. He resisted the urge to interrupt the group of newsies, opting instead to duck behind a stoop until the boys in the group had left.  
  
"Enjoying yourself?" Jack tapped one of the girls on the shoulder. Tess turned and grinned at him.  
  
"You bet." She laughed and looped her arm around another girl's waist. "What about you, dear, did you have a good time?"  
  
The girl wrinkled her nose in response. "My date wasn't a very good kisser."  
  
Tess laughed gaily and shrugged. "What do you expect from those Lower Manhattan boys?" She poked Jack in the ribs, teasing him and thoroughly enjoying herself.  
  
Turning serious for a minute, Jack asked her if she found out anything.  
  
Tess heard the business tone in his voice but wasn't going to stop playing. She laughed instead and smiled as she said, "What? You mean how he cries himself to sleep at night because no one likes him?"  
  
Rolling his eyes, Jack frowned.  
  
Tess took her arm off of the girl's waist. "Ok, ok," she said, her hands up. "Take me out for a drink Cowboy and I'll tell you if he spilled water on his shirt cuff."  
  
Jack pushed into his pockets to feel for money, but Tess raised her arms to stop him.  
  
"Honestly. Can't get boys to do anything right. We'll go Dutch." She slid her arm through Jack's and waved good-bye to the other girls. Walking a few blocks, Tess gave Jack a run-down of what they had done--a show, a walk, a little something to eat--and who was there.  
  
"I paired Julia up with that boulder, John Jay--hey, we're going right here," she pulled Jack into a small dance hall. "I don't think she liked him very much, but he liked her. In fact, I'd say all the boys were perfectly smitten with my girls, not that I don't blame them. It's common knowledge they're the prettiest in all five boroughs." She smiled a little to herself as she and Jack wound their way in between couples and tables to a booth in the back.  
  
"But really," she went on, "none of them were terribly bright. I felt bad for Julia, especially when Jag pulled me away for a bit. The boulder is completely lost without him. She said he was stumbling around her, confused and awkward. And he was one of the better ones." She shook her head. "Finally, Maxine, she's the tall one with the dark hair and blue eyes, she told them all what to do. They're so hopeless they'll listen to anyone."  
  
"That's fine," Jack said vaguely. He hadn't really been paying attention, letting the finer details of Tess's date slip by. "But the point of all this was to get closer to him and get him to trust you."  
  
For the first time, Tess's smile faltered, and she leaned in to be heard over the loud music. "Truthfully, I doubt I'll learn anything. Jag is under the impression that girls are stupid little birds, good for only a few choice things and not for discussing important information with." She shrugged and her smile returned as she slid back into the booth. "Now, I do think I could distract him quite a bit and get him out of Manhattan, should we need to."  
  
Digesting the information, Jack pursed his lips and stared out at the dancing couples. "That's good. It helps." He stopped thinking and glanced back at Tess, smiling. "I need to go, need to have some talks with some people, but before I leave, wanna dance?"  
  
As usual, Tess laughed, her pretty eyes looking at Jack in a new light. "Thanks, Cowboy," she said, putting a hand over his and patting it, "but I've got a boyfriend who's a marine and he could snap you like kindling."  
  
Jack raised an eyebrow. "And Jag?"  
  
Tess smiled, a flash of mischief in her face. "Oh, don't worry, I already told Mike about him. He thinks it's very brave for his little girl to work as a double agent spy." She thought for a moment. "Although, if Jag is still around when Mike gets back from England, our problems could be solved very quickly."  
  
Grinning for the first time in days, Jack stood up from the table and dropped a few coins on the table. "As a thanks," he replied to her good- natured protests. He stuck his hands in his pockets and sauntered out of the dance hall. He had gone a few blocks, heading towards Brooklyn, when he stopped, blinking at the obviousness of it all, and grinned at his own genius. Tess had told him all along how to stop Jag, all Jack had to do was make it possible.  
  
"Easy," he told himself, walking much faster towards Brooklyn.  
  
Ivy had already decided to wait until after dinner before talking to Race. He started to get up from their freshly scrubbed table to clear the dishes when she placed a hand over his.  
  
"Sit down," she commanded gently, without blinking, keeping her clear blue and green eyes locked onto his, Ivy watched Race slowly ease down into his chair. He looked as tense as she had a few hours ago and she knew that he, like her before him, was thinking something was wrong with the baby.  
  
"Bad news." It was supposed to be a question, but Race knew Ivy well enough that it was really a statement.  
  
Ivy nodded, then shrugged. "It's..." She sighed and brought both of her hands across the table to hold onto his. "Mrs. Stanford told me today...that...I'm not having a baby." Immediately, Race's hand squeezed tight and Ivy spoke fast. "No, no, not like that. I'm...there were three heartbeats, so, three babies." She studied his stunned face, holding on still to his hand.  
  
"I..." he started, stopped, and tried again. "I never expected..." He looked confused. "What's the problem?"  
  
Now Ivy looked surprised. "Are you kidding? Race, I'm not old enough or strong enough to have three children." She let go of his hands and started clearing the table to avoid looking at him.  
  
"Hey..." Race stood up too, and took the plates from her hands. Ivy shut her eyes and felt Race put his arms around her.  
  
"We won't all make it, Race." There were no tears, there wouldn't be because Ivy had realized all along she wasn't sad but scared. "Even if I make it, which is unlikely, not all of them will. Best possible scenario, if they all live and I make it, so what? They'll be small, sick, and I'll be weak and probably never have children again." She placed her cheek against his chest and awkwardly shook her head, muttering, "Just like my mother."  
  
Finally catching on, Race held Ivy tighter, for once speechless.  
  
Ivy raised her head to look at his face. "I want to have them." Her face was set, determined.  
  
Race nodded, sighed, and kissed her forehead. "Never thought I'd be ready to risk your life, but me too. Guess we'll have to take our chances." He kissed her again and managed a small smile for Ivy's sake. "Feeling lucky?"  
  
"Oh Race," Ivy said back, and wrapped her arms around him, five hearts beating precariously in the small room.  
  
Spot slid one of his hot hands down Elena's arm to her fingers, which stretched and curled at his touch.  
  
"It's early still," he said softly, pulling her to a halt, pulling her closer. "My apartment's just down the block."  
  
She was looking away from him at a street lamp and said nothing.  
  
Taking this as a yes, Spot started to wrap one arm around her waist, gently but firmly bringing her face an inch from his, she still turned away; her ear was level with Spot's chin and a few sparse hairs that had escaped the pull of her bun tickled his nose. Softly, he kissed her temple and watched the silhouette of her eyelashes flutter.  
  
Suddenly, she turned. "I've never been kissed before." She stated it simply, scanning his face for a reaction.  
  
Spot smiled and leaned in. They kissed for half a second before Elena jerked her head back.  
  
"That wasn't...that's not what I meant," she stammered, trying to disentangle herself from his hold. "I'm not the kind of person who... I don't on the first... I can understand if you don't want to date me anymore. You probably are used to someone different..." Giving him one final look, she crossed her arms, took a step backwards, and walked away from him, her little figure dipping in and out of the spotlight of the street lamps.  
  
"Elena, wait!" Spot called. He ran to catch up with her and found that she was walking unnecessarily fast. "Who said I didn't want to date you?"  
  
"I don't understand why you'd want me," she replied, not looking at him and not slowing down.  
  
Spot felt his stomach explode happily when she wiped at her eye with the back of her wrist--something he'd never seen anyone but himself do--and he knew it was things like that, quiet things, that made him life her.  
  
"I'm not some prize," she was saying, "and I'm not like you at all."  
  
"Listen." He was stern and grabbed her wrist to keep her from moving forward. "My last girlfriend was exactly like me and we were not good together. Drove each other crazy. I was miserable with her and so was she-- even went out and got someone new behind my back," he finished with disgust.  
  
"Oh," Elena said, her features soft. "I'm so sorry."  
  
Spot looked at her square in the eye. "Why don't you let me decide who's best for me?" He smiled slightly. "You like me, don't you?"  
  
Elena tentatively smiled back. "You're much different than what I first thought." Her smile faltered. "But... I still don't kiss someone I hardly know."  
  
In the light from the lamps and moon and stars, Spot thought Elena was about the prettiest thing he had ever seen. She was like an angel with her wide brown eyes and soft voice. Spot knew she was a gentle girl and he shivered inside recalling how minutes earlier he had so confidently and foolishly tried to take her to his apartment.  
  
"Guess you'll have to get to know me," he answered with a wry smile.  
  
"And..." She didn't seem to know how to phrase this. "And, you won't try..."  
  
"Promise," he said softly. To her doubtful look he shrugged and grinned. "Doesn't mean it's not going to kill me. But," he paused, "you're worth it."  
  
Elena looked as though she didn't know how to take that, but was reassured when Spot gently put out his hand, waiting for Elena to take it so they could walk back to the Lodging House together.  
  
"I've never had a beau before," Elena said shyly, still not taking his hand.  
  
"I've never met anyone like you before," Spot answered, his hand shaking slightly but his face set and determined.  
  
Elena looked him over for a second before, slowly, put her hand in his. They both smiled and started the long walk to the Lodging House.  
  
Jack stared at the tense faces around him. He felt a thrill of excitement he had once before felt leading the New York City newsies strike.  
  
"Here's how it's gonna be," he told them. Twelve young men and women stared back at him, waiting. "Tess has Jag out of the city."  
  
"Where are they?" Stick interrupted. "Just curious," he shrugged at the annoyed looks.  
  
"Rome," Jack snapped back, "Jag wanted to see the Coliseum. Shut up." He glared at Stick before turning back to the rest of the group. "Listen up. Whenever Jag goes out of the city he leaves a couple guys in charge. Outsiders, which means it'll probably be my old Manhattan kids. Skittery, I'm guessing, and Snoddy. Most of you know them," Jack continued, "and the rest of you will catch on fast.  
  
"Now here's where things get tricky. Because we can end this in a ten- minute talk but only if Skittery and Snoddy are in good moods. Otherwise, we soak them."  
  
He couldn't help noticing Bosti's grin. "Music to my ears, Cowboy."  
  
"Now this'll only work if you listen to me, and your boys listen to you. If we start fighting over leadership, nothing gets done. Tell your boys they can only start fighting if you've given them the signal."  
  
"How'll we know we're allowed to fight?" one asked sarcastically. "Are you going to tell us first?"  
  
"Yeah," Jack replied, without a smile. "Listen to me and follow my lead."  
  
At that moment, Jack was aware that two more had joined their group. He turned to face Boots and Snipeshooter, their faces pale but determined as they nodded to the collection of leaders. Jack relaxed a little. Boots and Snipes had gotten his message; they were going to help get rid of Jag.  
  
"Who's it going to be?" Jack asked.  
  
Boots raised a shaking hand, then suddenly stiffened his resolve. "Me," he said, his jaw set.  
  
Jack smiled a little. He had hoped it would be Boots. "Everyone," he said, facing the group again, "I'd like to introduce you to the next leader of Lower Manhattan, Boots."  
  
Some of them smiled and welcomed him while others eyed his nervous appearance with doubt. Boots in turn flashed a quick grin and passed a look to Snipes. Snipes had chosen to remain second-in-command, which was just as well in Jack's opinion. Snipes was always a little too lazy to be in charge.  
  
"What's the news from the Lodging House?" Jack asked Boots.  
  
"It's Skittery," Boots replied. "Jag put 'im in charge as soon as he left. The jerk was so happy he looked like he was going to wet himself. Aching to be Jag's pet, I think, because he wanted to make sure he followed Jag's directions to the letter; we barely got away--he won't let anyone leave."  
  
Jack nodded and bit his lip. "Ok, so you all know what to do, right?" He watched the leaders nod slowly. "It's almost 12 o'clock right now," his eyes flicked up at the clock and back to the group, "and at 12:30 the boys all come back to the Lodging House, so at 1 o'clock we meet. We'll see how Skits wants to handle this. Any questions?" No one replied as he stared at them. "Good. We'll meet outside the Lodging House in an hour." He eyed Boots and Snipes to tell them to stay and silently watched the others leave. As Nails walked by, Jack smiled a little. He had been impressed with Spot's replacement, finding him responsible, intelligent, and kind, and credited Spot for his good judgment in picking him.  
  
"You've got a big job ahead," Jack told Boots when the three of them were alone. "And you can't be nervous. Ready?"  
  
Boots was looking much better than he had ten minutes ago. "Once you've got Skits out of the way I tell the kids I'm in charge."  
  
"Right, and you'll have every newsie in the city backing you up, so don't worry. Plus Nails let me know Brooklyn will be babysitting you for a little while until you get settled."  
  
Nodding, Boots shook Jack's hand. "I better head out, too, if there's nothing else."  
  
"There's nothing else," Jack replied. "One hour. Good luck."  
  
In response, Boots lifted his chin defiantly before turning on his heel with Snipes following him.  
  
Jack watched them leave and began gathering up his things when the door opened again. Spot walked in, smiling.  
  
"Ready to go, Cowboy?" he asked. "We spotted two of Jag's cronies hanging around South Street--want me to start phase one now?" His grin stretching, he kept the door open and ushered his friend through.  
  
Jack felt his nerves relax at Spot's excitement. It was Spot's job to keep Jag's muscles distracted so Jack could get Boots in place. Once he was secure in his leadership, all of Jag's boys would listen to him.  
  
"Where'd you get this idea anyway?" Spot asked as they walked down the street.  
  
Jack grinned. "Tess, actually." He began to explain Tess's group date with Jag and the others and the chaos that ensued when Jag disappeared even for a minute.  
  
"And you're sure they'll do what Boots tells them?" Spot asked, doubt evident in his voice.  
  
"With half of the newsies in New York backing him up? Yeah, I'm sure," Jack replied. "Hey, is that them?" He gestured to two large teenagers smoking outside a bookstore. When Spot nodded, he passed him a sly look. "Good luck," he said softly and sidled away before the pair could notice him. If he hurried, he should be able to make it to the Lodging House at just the right moment.  
  
Blocks later, Jack checked the big clock over the bank. 12:48. Sure enough, some of the other borough leaders were starting to trickle into the side streets surrounding the Lodging House. Jack saw Nails surreptitiously wave to him and motion to the Lodging House to indicate all the boys were inside. In a few more minutes he would make his move.  
  
He spent his time going over the plan. At 1 o'clock Boots would be ready and he and all the leaders would walk together to the Lodging House, keeping secret the hundreds of newsies who had resisted Jag. Jack and the others would talk to Skittery and try to persuade him to give up and stop following Jag once and for all.  
  
Seeing several young newsies playing nearby, Jack frowned and hoped they wouldn't have to resort to a brawl. No doubt the younger kids would get hurt. He moved to check the clock again and saw Boots creep up next to him.  
  
"Ready?" Jack asked.  
  
Boots nodded. "I'm ready."  
  
Seeing his confidence, Jack smiled and caught the eyes of the other leaders. Together, they crossed over to the front door of the Lodging House. They formed a group around the base of the stairs while Jack bounded up them and knocked heavily. After a few moments, a thin, dark boy Jack didn't recognize opened the door and looked over the group of strong, older, and threatening-looking leaders.  
  
"Uh, yeah? Something you want?" he asked, shifting his weight.  
  
"Skittery," Jack replied. "Now," he added.  
  
The door closed for a minute but didn't lock. While the group waited, Jack could hear shouts and sounds of motion coming from inside the Lodging House. Without warning the door burst open and Skittery and two tall boys stood watching and waiting.  
  
"Jack?" Skittery asked, incredulous. "What are you doing here?"  
  
Jack set his jaw and looked at Skittery sternly in the eye. "We need to talk to you about Jag. About you not taking orders from him anymore. About Boots being in charge and Jag giving up his dictator dreams."  
  
Skittery laughed. "Yeah sure."  
  
"Yeah," Jack replied, angry, "we sure will. And if you don't listen, we'll stop you anyhow."  
  
Again he laughed, although he looked slightly less confident. "You and what army?" he joked, starting to turn and close the door.  
  
A smile crept into the corners of Jack's mouth. "This one." He lifted his hand shoulder-high and the leaders behind him began to whistle and shout. The hundreds of concealed newsies began to file out of the streets, shouting, vibrant, frightening. The color drained from Skittery's face as the kids kept marching around the Lodging House, until there was barely any more room left.  
  
"Still want to close that door?" Jack asked. He eyed Boots, who took the clue and walked up the stairs to stand next to Jack.  
  
"Are you ready to talk now?" Boots added.  
  
Slightly dazed, watching the massive sea of newsies, Skittery nodded and slowly motioned for the leaders to come in. The newsies in the crowd cheered as the dozen leaders began to walk the stairs and enter the Lodging House. Boots turned to Jack to invite him in, but Jack smiled and shook his head.  
  
"I got you this far," he said. "It's up to you now." And, not waiting for a response, he walked down the stairs, away from the Lodging House and into the crowd.  
  
The sun was shining much warmer than expected as Jack and Race made their way to the Lodging House. They had both shed their light jackets and Race was just starting to roll up his sleeves when Jack began to talk about his recent triumph over Jag.  
  
"This kid was, I mean you remember Spot before he became a leader? This kid was worse." Jack shook his head, but smiled suddenly. "Oh, when we took him down...it was gorgeous, a thing to be remembered. And look! Now it's safe for us to visit Kloppman."  
  
"It wasn't before?" Race asked, side-stepping to avoid a vender's kiosk.  
  
Jack shrugged. "I guess not."  
  
Rolling his eyes, Race playfully slapped Jack's stomach. "Real conviction, there, Kelly. Oh hey!" he said suddenly. "Now that you've defeated the twerp from the west side, what are you going to do? You're still jobless, I see."  
  
To keep from answering right away, Jack swung his coat onto his other shoulder and kicked at the dust on the sidewalk. "That's why I wanted to talk to Kloppman. See if he knows where I could work."  
  
"Isn't Kloppman employed by the city?"  
  
"Yeah I think so," Jack said, looking down at his feet. "Hey, here we are."  
  
They looked up automatically at the Lodging House sign, which swung slightly in the afternoon breeze.  
  
"Looks the same as always," said Race, smiling with nostalgia. "Haven't been back for ages." He turned to Jack, who was smiling, too, and they bounded up the front steps together, forgetting they were men and only remembering the wonderful feel of the steps underneath the soles of shoes.  
  
"Kloppman!" Jack called, opening the front door wide. "Thought I'd come by so you can thank me in person." He grinned at Race, whose smile seemed to have faded slightly.  
  
"Guess he's...not home," Race said, then smiled and shrugged. "Oh well."  
  
Jack frowned. "Maybe he's taking a nap or something." He slapped Race's stomach and jerked his head in the direction of Kloppman's room. "C'mon."  
  
Following Jack, Race walked to the left down a hallway he'd always seen but never walked down. Jack, however, stuck his hands in his pockets matter-of- factly and sauntered down to the door at the end. He lifted his hand to knock, but stopped.  
  
"Door's open," he said, motioning to the bar of light streaming from the room.  
  
"Kloppman?" he asked. No response. Jack glanced back at Race for a moment before slowly pushing open the door.  
  
Jack took a few steps forward, then stopped. He threw his arm back, catching Race in the stomach, and muttered, "Go, get someone, cop, whoever." He had gone very white beneath his light tan and Race studied him for a minute before his eyes fell on...  
  
"Must've been his heart," Jack was saying very softly as he bent down to Kloppman's figure. "Did you hear me?" he suddenly snapped at Race. "Get someone!"  
  
Race turned and ran but Kloppman was still on his mind. He had always thought Kloppman was one of those people who just kept living, but now that he thought about it, Kloppman was old. Even so, he couldn't help the lurch in his stomach when he thought Kloppman was dead.  
  
'Was he?' Race thought, running up to a policeman. Jack didn't say anything for sure and through the pangs of worry and remorse for Kloppman, Race felt a surge of anger towards Jack. He didn't really know how he managed to bring the cop back to the Lodging House but between the blurs of emotion, Race learned what he thought he'd never have to hear. Kloppman, who had made a life out of giving street rats a home, who had played a father, mother, doctor, and friend for more than half a lifetime, had finally died.  
  
"Kids are coming back soon," Jack said without emotion, sitting with Race on a couch in the front room.  
  
Race nodded, staring out into space. "Least they won't see anything," he added as an afterthought. The police had moved Kloppman's body quickly and after searching through Kloppman's meticulously neat files, found his insurance policy and will.  
  
"I can talk to them," Jack decided. He looked at Race to find Race already looking back. "You can get home to Ivy--she's probably worried."  
  
Realizing that Jack was most likely right and also that this was one of those things he shouldn't argue about, Race nodded, stood up, and held out his hand for Jake to shake.  
  
"Listen, don't be sad, all right?" Race said, spur of the moment. "Kloppman wasn't a serious person, he wouldn't want us to be down in the dumps."  
  
Jack lifted his eyebrows, surprised, then laughed. "Yeah... I think you're right." He laughed again. "Crazy old man...sure as hell will miss him."  
  
"We'll think of him every time we can't get you up." Race grinned and lightly punched Jack's shoulder.  
  
"Shut up you smart-ass Italian," Jack shot back. He waved good-bye, watched his friend leave, and braced himself for the early arrivals.  
  
"Dear Nick,  
"It's been months now since you left with barely a good-bye and no way to get in touch other than this P.O. Box. I worry about you like I worry about family. Do you remember me telling you I always have to know where my family is? Where are you? Eric says you're dead somewhere. And after months of not hearing from you, maybe he's right. Then why do I write this but for the dim hope I still have that you're alive, reading it, and you decide to come back. No, you don't even have to come back, just let me know, somehow, that you're alive and all right. At night I lie in bed sick with worry. And I used to think "sick with worry" was just an expression, but I'm sick, I'm aching, tell me you're alive! If, God forbid, someone else reads this letter, someone who can tell me something, please, please do. I love this man. Nick, I love you. Even though I'm flailing, failing without you, I love you. I can't breathe anymore I miss you so much. Kitty"  
  
Bullet bit the inside of his cheek, tore the letter into pieces, and touched them to the candle flame.  
  
"I didn't know Kloppman had a daughter," Jon was saying. "Did you Jack?"  
  
Jack didn't look up and it took him a moment to answer. "Yeah," he responded vaguely. "I think he mentioned it once..."  
  
They were on their way back from Kloppman's funeral, talking quietly to themselves.  
  
"She was nice," Ivy said lamely.  
  
"Of course she was," Race replied. "She was Kloppman's daughter and he wouldn't have raised someone awful." He smiled with a kind of fierce pride. "Sure raised us right."  
  
They walked back in silence, everyone tired out by the ordeal of the morning. When they finally reached Ivy and Race's building, Ivy gave Jon a hug as Jack ducked his head to tell Race good-bye then gave Ivy a kiss on the cheek before walking down the street with Jon.  
  
"That wasn't such a fun time," Race said when they reached their apartment.  
  
Ivy smiled grimly, sat down at the table, and picked up her sewing.  
  
"I hate those somber things," Race continued. "Kloppman wasn't a serious guy. I'd rather remember him with all the funny things he did than be stoney." He made a face and stuck out his tongue at Ivy. When she didn't look up he frowned and was silent for a moment before smiling suddenly. "Or I'd rather talk about other things.  
  
"How about Teddy?" Race put his arms around Ivy and rested his chin on her shoulder. "You know, after Teddy Roosevelt."  
  
Rolling her eyes, Ivy shook herself out of Race's hold so she could pick up the stitch she'd dropped. "I'm not naming my son after a politician-- they're all lions."  
  
Race grinned and sat down next to her. "So?" He waited for Ivy's response but only saw a small, tired smile on the corner of her mouth. "Well we have to come up with some names. Six. Three boys' names and three girls'."  
  
"You want to do this now?"  
  
"Ivy," Race started, "you're supposed to have the babies, when? Two or three weeks right?"  
  
She looked down at her large round stomach. "Sure, just look at me--I'm big as a house."  
  
"So we should be ready for when the babies come. Come on, think of some names."  
  
Ivy sighed and looked up. "Oh, I don't know. I'm no good with names." Her eyes rested for a moment on her brother's letter on the table. "Alexander. I like Alexander." She studied Race's face. "Then we name him after two very important people in our lives, Zandor and Spot."  
  
"Alexander Higgins," Race thought out loud. "Alex Higgins." He shrugged. "Sounds all right." Satisfied, he rocked the chair back on its back legs, squeaking and thumping every time he moved.  
  
"Stop that, you'll fall backwards," Ivy scolded, the small smile still on her face. Noticing Race's expression, she set her sewing down and asked him what he was thinking.  
  
"Kloppman..." Race said vaguely, looking past Ivy. "I never knew his first name but on the tombstone it said Patrick. I've been thinking... Patrick Higgins might not be so bad."  
  
Pleased, Ivy replied, "I thought the same thing. I knew someone named Patch; it's a nice name for a little boy and as he gets older he can grow into it."  
  
The two of them sat in silence, queer little smiles on their faces as they thought of their future children. In another minute, Race got up and poured himself a glass and got another for his wife.  
  
"Alexander," Ivy said, breaking the silence. "Alex will be responsible, practical, and a hard-worker. He will be handsome, athletic. He'll look more like you, with darker hair and eyes, but he'll act like Zandor, his namesake. He'll be just as intelligent and resourceful." Smiling at the thought, Ivy turned to look at Race.  
  
"And Patch?" Race asked. He walked back to the table at set Ivy's glass in front of her. "Patch'll look the same as Alex, won't he?"  
  
Ivy chewed on her lip as she thought. Finally, she slowly shook her head. "No... Patch and Alex will be as different as night and day. Patch will be smaller, paler, and he'll look more like me." She grinned. "But he'll act more like you. Patch will be our troublemaker and rebellious and he won't get along with authority. But, oh, he'll make us laugh. He'll be popular because he's funny and daring, but he'll get into trouble, too. Spot will be his favorite uncle, I think."  
  
Race was lost in thought and absent-mindedly reached for and held Ivy's hand. "What about a girl? I always wanted a little girl."  
  
Ivy wrinkled her nose. "I don't know girls' names." She swung her legs out from under the table and hooked her bare toe around Race's ankle. "But if we have one I think she'll look like me, same as how I look like my mother. Oh, she'll be so quiet, a little mouse, shy and sweet and beautiful. Everyone will fall in love with her because she'll have such a warm heart that she'll be ready to love everyone. But," Ivy started, with a gleam of triumph in her eyes, "she'll be strong and people won't hurt her badly. She'll be one of those lucky few bold enough to love the world and not shed a tear when it doesn't love her back. She'll be like roses." Ivy laughed. She didn't know where that final sentiment had come from, it had just slipped out, but as soon as she said it she imagined her perfect little rosy baby and she smiled.  
  
"They sound pretty good," Race said, reaching out to stroke Ivy's stomach. "Hi there." He placed one finger on her round belly and tapped lightly. "Hello." Gently, he tickled Ivy's stomach with his fingers and she laughed again.  
  
Twenty minutes before Jon was due to get married he was cooped up in a small room with his three best friends, all of whom were laughing to each other as they swapped jokes.  
  
"Think you guys could shut it for two seconds?" Jon snapped irritably,  
  
Race and Jack passed a look between them and Jack muttered "Glad I'm not the one getting married."  
  
"Problem, Jon?" Spot asked his friend, who was now sitting on the edge of a chair, looking very white and tensely massaging his knuckles.  
  
Jon looked up at Spot and shrugged. "Maybe Mae isn't right for me, you know? Could be the biggest mistake-" He stopped short as the door knob turned and the door was pushed open. Half expecting Mae, Jon shot up to his feet and straightened his hair.  
  
However, it wasn't Mae. The very last person they expected to see broke into a grin at their shocked faces and tossed an overstuffed duffle bag onto the floor.  
  
"Hey guys--miss me?" It was Mush. With no shoes on. Dressed head to toe in army fatigues.  
  
"Mush?" Jack was the first to speak. "What the... Why are you dressed...? and why aren't you wearing...?"  
  
"I joined the army!" Mush said joyfully, his arms outstretched in a sort of shrug that matched his sheepish grin.  
  
"But your feet," Jon started, raising an eyebrow.  
  
"Oh that," Mush replied, waving away the comment. "I traded my boots to a corporal for a three-day pass."  
  
"So we don't hear for you for months and you run off and become a barefoot private?" Race asked incredulously.  
  
"Private first class," Mush said, displaying his stripes with a proud smile. "Just got my promotion."  
  
"We're so pleased," Spot muttered, rolling his eyes.  
  
"And that's not all," Mush continued brightly.  
  
"What, you got married?" Race joked.  
  
Mush looked uncomfortable for a minute.  
  
"You got married?!" Jack exclaimed.  
  
"Last month."  
  
"Has Mary seen you? Because it's nice you've settled down at a cute little barracks but, pal, you do realize we're going to be at your funeral, 'cause Mary's gonna kill you."  
  
They turned around to see Jon rocking in his chair and laughing. "Wow. Glad you're back, Mush. You make me feel so much better about my life."  
  
Not knowing exactly how to take that, Mush smiled awkwardly and said, "No problem."  
  
"I'm guessing you haven't told Mary," Jack said.  
  
Mush shook his head.  
  
"Wait one second," Race interrupted, his face screwed up in thought. "How'd you know Jon was getting married today? We haven't been talking to you for months."  
  
Mush pulled out a letter from his pocket. "Oh, well, when Mary last wrote me she said-"  
  
"Hold on," Race said, grabbing the letter. "You mean you're still been writing to her?! And you didn't tell her you were married?! Or that you've traded street clothes and suspenders for Civil War-surplus khakis?!"  
  
Mush shrugged sheepishly.  
  
Groaning and putting his arm around Mush's shoulders, Race laughed. "From now on one of us always stays within a 10-foot radius of him."  
  
At that moment, one of Mae's relatives poked her head through the door. "Two more minutes," she said, eyeing Mush uncertainly. "You had all better get in your places." She closed the door and, as if on cue, Jon's skin turned ghost white.  
  
"Come on," Spot said, slapping his hand on Jon's shoulder. "Time to face the music." He put his hand under Jon's arm and pulled him to his feet.  
  
They started to walk single-file to the door. Mush turned to follow them when Jack, who was the last to go, stopped him.  
  
"No," he commanded, pointing his fingers into Mush's chest.  
  
"Why can't I come?" Mush asked with the air of a sullen child.  
  
"Because you're dressed like a G.I., you've got nothing on your feet, and the church would turn into a boxing ring as soon as Mary saw you."  
  
"But-"  
  
"No. Sit. Stay." Jack watched Mush reluctantly obey. "We'll get you later."  
  
Jack rushed down the hallway to meet the others. As he arrived in the front, the girls walked in from another hallway. Jack took Anne's arm at the same time Spot held onto Mary and Ivy slipped her hand into Race's.  
  
"She looks beautiful," Race said, glancing back to see Mae fully dressed and glowing with a warm smile.  
  
"Mmm," Ivy agreed, smiling placidly. She looked fondly at her friend and added in a sweet voice, "She's drunk."  
  
Race thought he hadn't heard right. "She's--what?"  
  
"Oh, she was nervous a bit so we just gave her something to clam her nerves," Ivy replied, with the air of someone commentating on the weather. "See the rosy glow in her cheeks? Brandy."  
  
Race stifled a laugh while the music started.  
  
"It's just a pity she won't remember anything tomorrow," Ivy added, "she looks so lovely." And, looping her arm through Race's, Ivy started to walk down the aisle.  
  
Tappi threw his head up in alarm at the small boy who darted in front of him, alerting Race to the boy's presence. He was a small, scrawny thing with a bunch of newspapers under one arm, a closely cropped head of hair, and a scared expression on his face. Race recognized him immediately.  
  
"Rocky, hey, what's up?" Race half-knew already what the boy would say, his hands shaking as they tightened the straps on Tappi's bridle.  
  
They little boy panted for a minute and pulled at the long sleeves of his baggy shirt. "It's yer wife!"  
  
Race's head snapped down to look at him. In half a moment he had his jacket on and called down to one of the men at the end of the stable. "Barry! Brush down Tappi for me?" To the stream of protests, Race only replied, "So let me lose my job--Ivy is having the kids!"  
  
Knowing Ivy would be at the hospital, Race made a bee-line uptown, Rocky still on his heels, still clutching his papers. Race arrived at the front desk breathless and nervous to hear bad news.  
  
"Ivy Higgins," he panted. "She's pregnant--I mean, she's having them right-- I mean-"  
  
The young girl at the front desk held up her hand to stop him. "One moment." She pulled out a large file and flipped through it as Race paced across the floor.  
  
"Third floor, but wait!"  
  
Race had already started running towards the staircase when he stopped.  
  
"Children are not allowed up." The woman glanced at Rocky.  
  
Race took a deep breath then got down on one knee. "Rocky," he said softly, "run to Tibby's and get Jon, all right? And if you can find any of the others, Spot or Jack, get them too, but first Jon." Realizing the financial jeopardy he was putting this kid in, not letting him sell his papers, Race reached into his pocket and fished out a nickel. "I'll give you a quarter if you bring Jon extra quick." He pressed the nickel into Rocky's hand and watched the little boy dart out the door.  
  
On the third floor, Race was largely ignored by the doctors and nurses rushing past. His attempts to stop one of them to ask about Ivy were useless until he heard a familiar voice call his name. He turned to see Mrs. Stanton walk quickly towards him.  
  
"Do you know how she is?" Race let some of the panic he was feeling let out in his voice; he didn't like the expression on Mrs. Stanton's face.  
  
Mrs. Stanton sighed and led Race over to a chair. "Just sit here for a minute." Her face was still tight and despite her efforts to keep expressionless, it was obvious she didn't have good news for him.  
  
"She had the babies very quickly," Mrs. Stanton explained, looking Race straight in the eye, one hand holding onto Race's cold and clammy fist. "They all, everyone, are alive, but weak. It's too early to tell right now. Ivy lost-"  
  
They were interrupted by Jon, who had just arrived, still in his uniform and apron and, from the looks of the papers in his pocket, still carrying some table's check. He looked as haggard and breathless as Race had a few minutes ago and asked immediately what was happening.  
  
"Right now we're taking Ivy to an operation room."  
  
"Operation room?" Jon asked.  
  
Race stood up, angry and confused. "Why is she going to an operation room?"  
  
Trying to placate Race, Mrs. Stanton stood up and placed her hands on his shoulders. "There were some complications and the doctors need to take care of her."  
  
Giving her a look to say he clearly didn't understand, Race asked her about the triplets.  
  
"They are on their way to the Intensive Care Unit so we can monitor their breathing."  
  
Race wasn't too sure what she meant by that, but he knew it couldn't be good, and he tried to push past her into the corridor.  
  
"Race!" Mrs. Stanton rushed in front of him to stop him. "You can't see them now."  
  
As if on cue, a team of doctors wheeled a stretcher out of one of the rooms at the end. Through a mass of surgeon's arms and bodies, Race could see Ivy's small body, curled and weak, being carried away from him towards the last door of the hallway. Not able to contain himself, Race shouted her name and was hushed by Mrs. Stanton. He wanted to follow her, but was stopped suddenly as a smaller stretcher rushed past, carrying what looked at first to be a pile of blankets but was in fact three small, pink bodies. Race walked behind them, dazed, for a few steps before they disappeared behind another door.  
  
"It's not in your hands now."  
  
Race knew Mrs. Stanton was trying to comfort him, but her words weren't helping. Feeling entirely useless, Race collapsed onto the chair he had been sitting on and felt Jon's weight fall heavily beside him.  
  
Still groggy, Ivy opened her eyes and focused them on the first thing she saw--Race's smiling face. When he saw her awake, tears formed at the corners of his eyes and he laughed, kissing her over and over.  
  
"You're awake!" Barely pausing for breath he kissed her again. "They said getting you up was half the battle!" He laughed and laughed, holding her face between his hands.  
  
"Race?" Ivy was still confused, but seeing the tubes on her arm and the hospital room she was in, it suddenly all came back to her. "Wait! The babies! What happened?"  
  
As she asked the question the tears in Race's eyes began to form. He hastily brushed them away and took her hand. "Ivy..."  
  
"What happened?" she demanded, her heart racing. Mrs. Stanton's words echoed in her head. They'll be premature. If they live at all. "What happened?!"  
  
"Ivy!" He squeezed her hand. "Fine." He breathed out the word like a sigh.  
  
"You'll tell me now?" she asked.  
  
Smiling, Race shook his head. "You misunderstand. Fine. They're fine."  
  
Feeling her stomach flip and her whole body becoming light as air, she blinked in surprise. "All of them? But they said-"  
  
"I know," Race replied, a mischievous look in his eyes. "The doctors are all congratulating themselves; none of them thought all four of you would be all right."  
  
"But they are?" Ivy asked, still afraid what she was wishing for was impossible, that her whole family was intact. "Where are they?"  
  
Race smiled gently. "Wait here."  
  
He disappeared into the hallway for a moment and returned with Spot and nurse, all three holding very small bundles. "Two boys and a girl," he said, not at all trying to contain his pride. "They're perfect and healthy.  
  
"They sure are," added the nurse. "A bit of a worry spot with the little girl for a minute but she's doing just fine now. And the boys were as healthy as could be after a few hours. Why, they're as fine children as you could wish for."  
  
The three walked slowly to Ivy's bedside, bringing her children close to her. Unable to say anything, Ivy felt the rush of love and emotion for her children and grateful tears streamed down her face. "They're beautiful," she whispered, touching them gently.  
  
"You're the brother?" the nurse asked Spot. When he nodded, she smiled at him and gently placed the baby she was holding, a boy judging by the blue blanket, into Ivy's arms. "I'll leave the family alone then."  
  
At her words, Ivy and Race's eyes met. Family. After searching for families for years, creating surrogate families, fearing the families they had come from, they finally had their own together.  
  
"You're naming one after me, right?" Spot asked, swaying the girl.  
  
Overcome with emotion for a moment, Ivy could only nod vaguely as she memorized every inch of her son's face. "Alex," she murmured. "The oldest one will be Alex."  
  
"That's him," Race said, motioning with his head to the baby in Ivy's arms. "Then this one will be Patrick, after Kloppman." He cooed gently to the darker-haired baby he held.  
  
"And what about this one?" Spot asked. He was staring down at the little girl with an expression of rapture, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.  
  
"Oh, well we hadn't really thought of girls' names," Ivy confessed. "Let me see her."  
  
Obediently, Spot brought her next to Ivy so she could inspect her carefully. "She's going to be beautiful," Spot said gently.  
  
Seeing her pink cheeks and dark hair, Ivy smiled and touched her face softly. "My little rosy baby," she whispered happily.  
  
"Rosie?" Spot said. "That's a nice name."  
  
Ivy and Race were both silently stunned by Spot's response. In unison, they smiled and looked at each other.  
  
"I like it," Race said.  
  
"Me too," agreed Ivy.  
  
"So," Spot said. "Alex, Patrick, and Rosie--Ivy and Race's children." He whistled softly. "Amazing."  
  
Ivy laughed, feeling for the first time in her life that she was living in a perfect moment.  
  
Jack ducked his head down closer to the collar of his jacket and pushed his hands deep into his pockets. The mild start of December was deceiving; now that it was getting closer to Christmas the temperatures were dropping.  
  
As he walked in the dark down a side alley, he couldn't help noting the small bundles of rags huddled against the walls of buildings. The street kids, carrying the banner as usual. Because he remembered how he used to hate it when adults stared at him, Jack looked away quickly. Out of the corner of his eye, however, he saw something familiar and, going against his gut feeling, he examined one of the sleeping boys carefully.  
  
"Rocky!" he said after a moment. "What the hell are you doing here?" He leaned down towards him, kicking him softly with his toe.  
  
Rocky slept on, curled into a ball and oblivious to the outside world.  
  
Jack rolled his eyes and kneeled down. "C'mon," he urged, shaking his shoulder. "Rock, wake-"  
  
Rocky jumped to consciousness in a flurry of fists and legs. Biting, spitting, punching, he lunged at Jack cry, "Get off me! You won't get my money!"  
  
Surprised, Jack fell backwards as Rocky jumped on top of him. "Rocky!" Jack yelled. "It's me you idiot! It's Jack!"  
  
"You won't get any- J-Jack?"  
  
"Alive and breathing." Jack rubbed his chest where Rocky had landed. "Almost."  
  
He got to his feet, still rubbing his sore body. "So what's this? I go to all this trouble making the Lodging House safe from Jag and you wanna sleep in the streets? What, you haven't got a nickel?"  
  
Rocky glared at Jack, jaw stuck out, arms crossed. "I don't wanna go there."  
  
"Oh yeah?" Jack countered. "Why's that?"  
  
"Because the new Kloppman stinks."  
  
"The new... You don't call him that to his face, do you? 'Cause maybe that's why he doesn't like you."  
  
"He doesn't like anybody. He's an ole stick." Rocky kicked at some garbage with a frown on his face. "He's mean, he doesn't tell jokes, it's always 'Be quiet, go to sleep, wake up, be quiet,' I'm going crazy!" He turned and looked at Jack very seriously. "You're not going to take me back."  
  
"Nah." Jack clapped one of his hands around the back of Rocky's neck. "What I will be doing is taking you back with me."  
  
Rocky wriggled free and stared up at him, defensive. "I can take care of myself."  
  
"Oh sure," Jack said, grinning. "And last time you slept on the streets you woke up with empty pockets." He pushed Rocky's shoulder with the same joking grin and jerked his head in the direction of his apartment. "C'mon." He started walking and heard Rocky's footsteps behind him. "You know, after wanting to sleep in for my whole life, now I can't sleep late even when I try. Eight o'clock's the latest I can stand it and then I feel overslept the whole day."  
  
"Is that your way of saying I have to wake up and sell tomorrow?" Rocky raised his eyebrows and sneaked a pleading glance at Jack.  
  
"Yup," Jack replied, crushing Rocky's hope with a grin. "But you can look forward to a breakfast of boiled coffee and two-day-old pie."  
  
"Oh goody," Rocky replied dryly.  
  
Jack laughed in response and the two walked together in silence, huddled against the growing cold.  
  
"Zandor! Over here!" Forgetting her newfound status as a middle class lady and a mother, Ivy stood on a bench in Grand Central Station, waving her arms and shouting. She heard the scandalized comments of passing men and women and only grinned in response. "Zandor!"  
  
In another moment she had her arms wrapped around the waist of her younger brother. Zandor, now 16, was already a head taller than Ivy and looked less like the boy who played stickball in the streets than a young gentleman on vacation in New York.  
  
"You look so different!" Ivy said, taking his hand and laughing as he tried to kiss her fingers. "You've grown up so much!"  
  
"I think you've shrunk," Zandor joked, measuring Ivy's height with his hand. "Now," he rubbed his hands together, smiling, "where's my little namesake?"  
  
Ivy kept herself from rolling her eyes at Zandor's good-natured impatience. "Back at the apartment. Would you like to see them?"  
  
In response, Zandor's grin stretched even wider. He threw his bag over his shoulder and held his arm out for Ivy. "Let's get out of here."  
  
The two siblings laughed and walked out of the train station together. Although Ivy didn't get along well with her father and knew almost nothing of her stepmother, she loved her younger brother very much. The feeling was mutual; Zandor grew up lonely and wanting a sibling and he found in Ivy the sister he had been longing for.  
  
"Here we are." Ivy smiled at Zandor and opened the door to her apartment. Inside, Mrs. Rusmin was watching the three babies playing on the floor as she knitted in the rocking chair.  
  
"You're back soon," she said, although she didn't sound surprised.  
  
Blushing and shrugging, Ivy took off her jacket. "My brother," she said proudly, waving towards Zandor.  
  
Zandor grinned then turned his attention quickly to the triplets. As Ivy said good-bye to Mrs. Rusmin, Zandor bent down and picked up one of the babies.  
  
"Look at this handsome kid!" he exclaimed. "This one must be little Zandor. You, my boy, are going to be quite a good looking man when you grow up."  
  
"First of all," Ivy laughed, taking the baby from his arms. "His name is Alex, and second of all, this is Rosie and she will not, under any circumstances, be any sort of man when she grows up, good looking or not." Ivy kissed Rosie's forehead and motioned to another baby with her head. "That's Alex."  
  
With a renewed burst of energy, Zandor swooped down on his nephew and closely examined his every feature. "He looks just like me!" he said after a minute. "The same strong jaw, same broad shoulders, same Romanesque nose..." He lifted Alex up so their faces were cheek to cheek and Ivy couldn't help laughing.  
  
"You two really do look alike," she said. "You have the same pinchable cheeks." She reached out with a free hand to pinch Zandor's dimple. "Oh," she added as an afterthought, "over on your right is Patch, the cheerful baby."  
  
"Cheerful?"  
  
"He doesn't cry. Or, no, that's a lie, all babies cry, but Patch rarely makes a noise. Alex cries as much as the next baby and Rosie will downright wail but Patch just keeps on smiling. Happiest baby in the world."  
  
Zandor smiled with a new appreciation at his other nephew. "Cute," he said simply. "Hey, why does Alex have bruises all over him?" He pulled at Alex's shirt to reveal a large, purple bruise on his shoulder.  
  
Ivy rolled her eyes. "Hoping you didn't notice." She sat down with Rosie on her lap. "It looks like Race and I are awful mean to him, doesn't it? Alex knows no fear--he's always getting into things and climbing on the furniture. He did that by rolling off one of the chairs."  
  
Zandor lifted an eyebrow and Ivy sighed.  
  
"I know, sounds strange, huh? We have to nail that one to the ground otherwise he'll climb the walls. Boy, I can't wait 'til he learns to walk."  
  
Zandor laughed, but stopped suddenly. "Oh! I can't believe I almost forgot the reason why I'm here." He set Alex down, tossed his duffel bag to the floor, and began rooting through it.  
  
"I thought you were here to see the triplets?"  
  
"Two birds, one stone," Zandor replied, still pulling things out of his bag. "Ah," he said after a minute. He stood up with a small package in his hands and held the package out to Ivy. "Happy Birthday."  
  
"Happy--what?"  
  
"Birthday. Yours." Zandor still held out the package.  
  
"I don't under-"  
  
"I asked Dad," Zandor interrupted, annoyed that Ivy still hadn't taken his present. "I was curious when your birthday was and he told me. It's today. You're nineteen years old."  
  
Ivy's eyebrows slid up and her eyes slightly widened. She shook her head in disbelief and stared at Zandor open-mouthed. "And you think he remembered the date after all this time?"  
  
Zandor shrugged. "He said it's the kind of thing you don't forget."  
  
Finally, Ivy smiled and laughed. "Oh, a birthday, how nice."  
  
"Well?" Zandor demanded.  
  
"Well what?" Ivy replied, still laughing.  
  
"Are you going to take your birthday present or what?"  
  
"Oh," Ivy protested, "just telling me I had a birthday is present enough; I couldn't take anything from you."  
  
"Oh no you don't." Pushing aside Ivy's protests, Zandor shoved the present into her hands. "I spent three week's pay on this; you're not going to turn it down."  
  
Ivy grinned and accepted the present without another word. "What is it?" she wondered out loud as she took off the wrapping. "Oh, Zandor." She grinned as she took out two hair combs, carved out of a dark wood and polished to a brilliant shine. "They're beautiful."  
  
Zandor flushed, then took them out of her hands. "Soon as I saw them I thought of you. Except..." he looked at her, embarrassed, "I didn't know really what you do with them." Stepping behind Ivy, he tried to put one of the combs in her hair, muttering darkly as he fumbled.  
  
Laughing, Ivy moved away and took back her combs. "Thanks." She stood up on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. "Really, I love them." The combs shone in her hands, and she started taking her hair down from its bun and letting her long curls fall over her shoulder.  
  
One of the triplets crawled over to Zandor and he bent down to pick him up. "How does it feel to be nineteen?"  
  
Ivy shrugged. "Same as I felt five minutes before you mentioned this to me." Making a final adjustment, she turned and beamed at Zandor. "How do I look?"  
  
Zandor smiled. "Beautiful." He put Patch back on the floor and gave his sister a hug. "Now you have a birthday. Today is the one day of the year that you'll be singled out, made special, and appreciated. Don't take it for granted, ok?"  
  
Ivy smiled wryly. "Never, Zandor, never."  
  
It was nearly 3 in the morning. Bullet knew this because the late night factory workers were coming home, talking as loud as they dared, and Bullet already memorized their schedule.  
  
He took this break in thought to get himself some water. He walked over to the sink and turned on the tap. Bending his head so his lips could reach the water, Bullet gripped the edges of the sink and began absentmindedly tapping out a rhythm.  
  
As he lifted his head, he caught his own eye in the mirror over the sink. He hadn't seen what he'd looked like for ages and his sunken face, pale skin, and matted, messy hair was a distinct contrast from the tan and vibrant young man of 10 months ago.  
  
"I hate New York," he told the reflection.  
  
Ten months ago he was sleeping regular nights, proud of his good looks and now sleep was something that he fought endlessly, only giving in when he couldn't see, couldn't breathe, couldn't think because even one false calculation meant death. Lack of sleep left him looking wasted and worn and, annoyed at himself, he made a face at his reflection, and took the mirror of its hook, and placed it in a cupboard. He would look in it tomorrow. Everything could be done with in 24 hours. His life could be his again. But then, he thought, sitting back down, there could be some new problems too.  
  
He sighed. 3:15. In six hours and forty-five minutes it would be out his hands. Until then, he still had six hours and forty-five minutes to do the impossible.  
  
Ivy yawned and stretched, folding her arms behind her head and readjusting her position on her bed. The triplets had just settled down into what promised to be a long, deep nap and Ivy was catching up on some much-needed sleep. The light from the setting sun shone at an angle onto her face and she squeezed her eyes tight and rolled onto her side. The front door of the apartment opened and closed and Ivy called out to Race, her eyes still closed, half-asleep.  
  
"Race? We're out of rolls and I couldn't get down to the bakery. Could you make a run?"  
  
There was no answer but footsteps came closer.  
  
"Race?" Slightly nervous, Ivy opened her eyes and propped herself up on an elbow. "Bullet!" He was standing at her bedroom door, his hands shaking and his eyes darting back and forth.  
  
"I need to talk to you," he muttered, coming into her room and carefully shutting the door behind him. "It's important."  
  
Ivy sat up and instinctively glanced at her children. Still asleep. "What? Why are you here?"  
  
Bullet was looking out her windows as if expecting to see someone and pulled up a chair to her bed. "Do you have somewhere you can go? Out of the city?"  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Do you? There must be somewhere you can go. It doesn't matter where, just make it as far away as possible."  
  
"Bullet." Ivy sat up and pulled her hair back. "What is this all about?"  
  
"Please!" He looked at her for the first time and Ivy noticed bags underneath his eyes, darkened against his sallow skin, and a frantic, crazed expression she wasn't used to seeing on his face. "I got myself involved into something terrible and I think you're in danger." His eyes flickered around the room again and finally flitted to her confused expression. "That day, I saw you, the first day, I-I meant to leave immediately, but that night, a...a man found me."  
  
"Who?" Ivy shifted to her knees and leaned forward.  
  
"His name is Rupert Loch." Even through his panic, Bullet's face contorted with disgust as he spat out the name. "He knew...things about me, to prove, I guess, his seriousness. He wanted me to steal it."  
  
Ivy's eyes widened--there was no need for further elaboration. "I thought they moved it! I mean, is it even po-"  
  
"No, that's not the worst thing," Bullet lamented, looking miserable. "He threatened me; that's the only way I would have done it. The Heart Dagger. He threatened to kill everyone I know."  
  
"But... You were always so secretive. No one knows enough about you."  
  
"He did," Bullet muttered with a sneer. "He knew things I thought were gone and buried. He'll find you. If tomorrow night he doesn't have the jewel in his hands, he'll give the order to have you all killed."  
  
"Bullet," Ivy murmured, "if that's the case...you've never created a plan that failed."  
  
"No!" His hands balled into fists he screwed his face up and turned away from her. "I didn't have enough time!" Panic started creeping back into his voice. "Maybe if I had a year and a half--time to make contacts, get area blueprints, work strategy... Ten months isn't enough! I just handed the plan into Loch's man, knowing there is no way it will work!" What color remaining in his face suddenly paled and he shuddered violently. "Get somewhere safe, please."  
  
For a few moments, neither of them spoke as Ivy let his words sink in. Finally, she'd found her home, her husband, a family, and now something was threatening that. She saw her life as Bullet was suggesting: living on the run, not even leaving a hint of suggestion for Race to find her. Her children would be alone, her life abandoned. A bitter, raging anger sprung up inside of her; she wanted to find this man, Loch, and destroy him and his petty greed.  
  
"I know how you felt when you came back to New York," she said, her eyes on the cribs. "How it feels when the life you created and the people you love are in danger. You came back to New York to protect that, didn't you? Not to see anyone after all."  
  
"Ivy..." Bullet was shaking his head. "We don't have time..."  
  
"I guess it makes sense, though, when you think about it." Ivy was still staring at the sleeping babies, a steely expression on her face. "Tad's death was so suspicious--anybody could have pushed him."  
  
Bullet's eyes became alert and narrowed as he glanced sharply at Ivy. "Pushed him?"  
  
Dreamily, Ivy turned her gaze towards him. "The fall, headlong."  
  
"No." Bullet's eyebrows knit in concentration. "There was no fall. O'Loughlin died from an illness. Some foreign disease."  
  
"I never heard that."  
  
"Do you think a Philadelphia paper would run a story about a prisoner in New York dying from a fall? They did an angle of how the New York prisons are so unsanitary a prisoner contracted this rare, fatal disease. Ivy, that was him." A look of concern filled his face. "Who told you he died from a fall?"  
  
Slightly bewildered, Ivy took a deep breath and looked at Bullet. "I went to say good-bye and I arrived just when they were going to cremate the coffin. The priest said we had to keep the lid closed because he fell and would be unrec-" She gasped. "He wasn't in the coffin, was he?!"  
  
"But this means-" Bullet massaged his knuckles, breathing hard. "Someone was hiding it; he wasn't dead. Ivy," he looked at her steadily in the eye, "I think he escaped."  
  
A moment hung in the chilly spring air as Ivy and Bullet tried to fathom what those words meant. Bullet made a sudden jerk as if to spring to his feet but something hard and dark, coming from the window, slammed into him, knocking him to the floor. Ivy gave a short scream as she saw the two figures roll together in the space between her bed and the door. The babies began to cry, first one, then all three, their voices mingling in pitch and volume, contrasting with the heavy thuds and strained gasps of the two struggling men.  
  
"Stop!" Ivy shouted, although she knew what little effect it would have. She forced her mind back to her training--stopping a fight...they'd never covered it. How could she distract them? Pain didn't work; Bullet taught her that in a fight people would be so caught up in emotions, minor scrapes went unnoticed. Time was running out, she told herself, distract them!  
  
Without thinking, she reached for a long scarf and hurried into the fight.  
  
"Bastard!" Bullet screamed. "Get off me!" Seeing Ivy, he tried to flip himself onto his back, leaving his attacker on top. "Around his neck, quick!"  
  
Ivy wrapped the scarf around her hands and pulled it taut, keeping her mind blank and her emotions clear. She struggled with the man; he kicked back, colliding with her kneecap and sending her with a short gasp of pain to the floor. She gritted her teeth and crawled to the two whirling figures.  
  
"Now!" Bullet gasped, pushing the man as far away from him as possible.  
  
Just as Ivy had the first loop around his neck, she saw a flash of metal and the scarf was severed in two. The sudden unbalance and another kick at her ankles landed her hard on the floor, her head connecting with her night table. She blinked away the stars and was just able to see Bullet's eyes widen, his mouth drop open as if surprised, his body slump and curl on the ground, completely still. His victim bleeding on the floor, the attacker wiped Bullet's blood off his knife onto the dark, dirty fabric off his pants and turned, slowly, although Ivy almost knew who to expect.  
  
"Tad? What are you doing?"  
  
Tad's dark, thick hair had grown since last she's seen him and now hung across his eyes and ears. His face, too, had changed--it was thin and hollow, empty.  
  
"I didn't want to do this now," he whispered, his raspy voice and light accent slightly distorting his words. "If you hadn't put things together I wouldn't have done anything."  
  
"Have you been following me?" Ivy demanded. Tad had moved enough so that if she shifted her weight she could get a good look at Bullet. She didn't even know if he was ok. He might be dead.  
  
"I've been watching you for months. Since the very day I escaped." He was so quiet, so still. He stared at her with unblinking eyes, almost somberly. "You were there to say good-bye. So was I."  
  
Ivy had been trying to surreptitiously examine Bullet but she suddenly focused on Tad. "What?"  
  
"The little building. The priest, the undertaker, the coffin. You." He tilted his head and blinked. "Have you not guessed? She won't like it when I cremate it." He had altered his voice and, wincing, Ivy remembered. That raspy, thick-bearded undertaker had Tad's eyes.  
  
"How did you do it?" Ivy was in a daze, and still part of her was screaming 'Bullet's on the floor! You need to help him! He's losing time--what are you doing?!'  
  
"The body in the coffin was once a jailer from the prison. We struck up a bargain. In exchange for his help, I'd give him the money I stored up. He drugged me one night, fooling the doctors to think I had died from some foreign illness. They put me in a coffin and took me to the crematorium. The officer offered to wait by himself until the undertaker and priest arrived, and when the others left, he let me out."  
  
"You killed him." Ivy's stomach lurched with a stabbing pain; her head swam with muddled thoughts. "Tad. You killed him."  
  
"He knew too much," Tad replied, breathing wearily. "I put him in the coffin, wore the disguise he'd hidden for me, waited for the priest. The real undertaker had been told not to come, so I was surprised when, after the priest arrived, the door opened again. You."  
  
Ivy took a sharp breath and risked another inch to see Bullet.  
  
"You cried for me." Tad paused, weighing the words. "You were sad. But you got the priest out of the way. I was scared maybe my partner would wake up in the middle of the oven and start screaming. But he didn't. And I walked out of the prison without anyone to stop me." He lowered his eyes, then sharply turned them to Ivy's face. "I knew where I had to go."  
  
A shudder ran over Ivy's skin. She felt hot and prickly as she slowly caught on. "You've been following, watching me this whole time."  
  
Tad nodded.  
  
"Why? You want to hurt me?"  
  
Another nod.  
  
"Why? Why?"  
  
Bullet suddenly twitched, his arm jerking to the side. Despite the waves of panic hitting her, Ivy felt a burst of hope that maybe Bullet wasn't hurt so badly.  
  
"For moths I've watched you. Married. Happy. Children. Why? What did you do to deserve this? Your life has been no more moral than mine. You stole, cheated, ruined futures, crushed hopes. You don't deserve this. You don't deserve any of it." Tad drew out the words and turned slowly to the crib in the corner of the room and the still-crying babies. He frowned. "I didn't want to do this now."  
  
Fear lurched into Ivy's throat. "Don't you touch them!" Her voice was high and shrill as she leapt to her feet.  
  
Tad looked up at her from his somber gaze at the babies. "You don't deserve this." He shook his head. "None of it."  
  
He raised the knife and Ivy reacted with more force than she knew she had in her. Tad was big and strong, at least a foot taller and a seventy pounds heavier but she launched herself at him. Her hands wrapped around his jacket collar, shoving him down onto the floor. The knife, which Tad had held tightly, clanged on the ground and slid off to the side, spinning slightly. Ivy was sitting on top of Tad now, breathing heavily and staring down into his face with hatred. Without thinking she picked up the knife and pressed the flat edge against Tad's throat.  
  
"Don't move," she rasped, "don't even-"  
  
"Ivy! Oh, Ivy!" Tad had collapsed into spasms of tears. Surprised, Ivy sat back and lightened her grip on him. "Ivy, I don't know what came over me. Please don't hurt me! Ivy, I love you, please don't cut me..."  
  
Ivy was shocked, bewildered. "Tad... I...."  
  
"I'm sorry, so sorry! Ivy I need help." The hot tears continued to roll down Tad's cheeks. "I love you, you're my family, my own little baby sister, I love you, why would I hurt you? They did things to me at the prison, terrible things. Don't send me back, Ivy, I need help! I'm angry and sick! Help me, Ivy, please." He looked up at her, his face twisted with emotion. For a moment Ivy saw the little boy who had been so kind to her, now small and sad, hurt.  
  
"Tad..." Ivy dropped the knife, leaned forward, and embraced him. She felt his arms go around her, still shaky, and his head fit into the space between her shoulder and neck. He sobbed into her, breathing in her hair and dampening her collar with his tears.  
  
"They hurt me in there," Tad whispered. "They made me think I had to blame you. What was I thinking? I love you, I love you. My Sprite. Ivy, I love you."  
  
She didn't know what to say. She barely knew what had just happened. Her heart still pounding, she drew herself away from him and stood up. He was still on the floor, on his back, looking up at her. They stared at each other for a moment before Ivy turned her attention to Bullet. "I think he's hurt badly," she said, leaning down to him. "You'll have to help me get him to a hospital."  
  
Bullet was pale, his skin ashen and covered with a cool, thin gauze of sweat.  
  
"Tad? Bring me one of Race's shirts from the closet." Ivy thought maybe she could make a pressure bandage and at least stop the bleeding. Where had Tad cut him? Just once? She hadn't been able to see properly; it might have been a few times. "Tad?" She turned around but he had gotten up from the ground. "Tad?"  
  
She felt his weight hit her and slam her against the bed. In the brief moment she had spent attending to Bullet, Tad had picked up the knife again. It was now close to her arm and, as she struggled, she felt it slit open the sleeve of her dress.  
  
"Tad!"  
  
"I didn't want to do this now." Tad had her pinned on her stomach on the side of her bed, her knees still touching the floor. "But you do deserve this. You deserve the life I've had: cold, alone. Do you know they beat me? Because I'm Irish and they didn't like Irish. They did other things to me, too. You put me in there; you made that happen. What I do now can't even be called living. Every day I dream about what I will do to you to pay you back for this. You ruined me. I hope you enjoyed what you've had. But part of you had to know it was just a beautiful dream. I've come to wake you up. You'll see now what it's like to have everything you ever wanted ripped away from you."  
  
He dragged her to her feet and tossed her to the other side of the room, away from the babies. Quickly, he drew out the knife again and advanced on them.  
  
"No!" Ivy picked herself up from the tumbling fall and grabbed Tad's waist, pulling him down on the floor again. He landed hard this time on his side, Ivy rolling over on top of him.  
  
"Oh!" he said, very softly. His eyes went wide and round and his mouth parted slightly. "Oh. Ivy... It hurts." He slowly lifted his blood-covered hand. It had been holding the knife, now dug deep into Tad's side. "Ivy?"  
  
Ivy had hit her head again when she went to the ground and slightly dazed, she almost missed the abrupt change in Tad's voice. He held up two shaking fingers and stared at her, cringing like a frightened animal.  
  
"It hurts," he whispered. "Ivy, it hurts. Ivy, help me. Please, help me. Take me somewhere."  
  
"What?" Ivy crawled to his side. "Oh God, Tad."  
  
Tad drew in his breath sharply. "Ivy, make it stop. It hurts so badly. I'm sorry I tried to hurt you, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, just please don't let me die." He curled his body around her, the blood still coming from his side. "I'm scared. I don't want to die. Ivy, help me. I love you, help me."  
  
"I-I don't know what to do," she stammered.  
  
"Take it out of me," he whispered, and Ivy could see he had both hands wrapped around the two inches of handle still sticking out. "I can't do it. I can't... I don't want to die like this! Ivy, help me."  
  
Unsure of herself, she gingerly pried Tad's hands off the handle and pulled. She was scared what else would come with the knife, but it was only more blood, smelling thick and heavy, dazing her senses.  
  
Tad's body shuddered and he looked up at her wearily. "It hurts too much, and I'm not ready. Ivy! I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." The skin around his eyes tensed and twitched and he tried to breathe deeply but his body racked with coughs. "It hurts, it hurts."  
  
The blood continued to flow and Ivy knew it was too late. He'd been mortally wounded and even if she could get him to a hospital, he'd only sicken and die. He shuddered again, a full body shiver that Ivy felt as he pressed himself against he even tighter.  
  
"Tad," Ivy spoke coolly, calmly. "I forgive you." Tears came from her eyes, but she kept her voice even. "I love you. Tell me about the good times we had, in Ireland."  
  
Tad looked pained, as if he hadn't remembered. "You-- and I," he stammered, the words hard to form now. "S-sitting by-- the lake. Lemonade. Your-- b- blue dress." Amid his pain, he struggled to smile. "D-do you re-member? I t- taught you-- how to sing 'D-danny--B-boy.' And you s-said-" Tad fell silent, suddenly, and went limp in her arms. Ivy wasn't surprised. After all, she'd broken his neck to end it quicker for him. The lesson Bullet had given her once, how to do it if she ever needed to--she remembered listening to him and thinking, 'I will never have to use this.' She was wrong.  
  
"Tad..." Ivy crumpled over him, rocking back in forth, holding his empty body, sobbing. Bullet lay half dead beside her, she sat drenched in Tad's life blood, her body tensed and she gave in.  
  
Bullet awoke to sounds of mechanical humming and bright light reflecting off light green tiles.  
  
"Ah, you're awake." A young woman's pretty face came into view, smiling down at him. "How are you Nick?"  
  
"Name's not Nick..." Bullet mumbled, groggy from too much sleep and confused. "I'm Bullet, Bullet Tymer."  
  
With a painful realization that hit him like a slap, Bullet suddenly knew where he was and what he had just said. He waited for the nurse to question him and alert the other doctors in the hospital that there was a criminal here. Mentally he scolded himself. After all these years of keeping it a secret, he blurted out his true name without a second thought.  
  
She laughed.  
  
Even more confused, Bullet looked over at her. There she was, prettily blushing and covering a small smile behind her hand. Laughing at the very thought.  
  
"Well, some part of you must have been listening," she said, leaning down do place her hand on his forehead. "Bullet Tymer has been quite the talk of the town. He was arrested, and now he's in jail. Now, your name is Nick Deacy. You're 24 years old. Do you remember?"  
  
Not quite sure of himself, Bullet nodded, smiling slightly to try to assure the nurse.  
  
"Good. Well, I'll just run and get your cousin, then, shall I. She's hardly left your side but she just ran downstairs for a moment." The nurse flashed one last smile before placing her clipboard on a hook at the foot of his bed and leaving his room.  
  
Alone, finally, Bullet stared down at his body, testing the strength of his arms by squeezing his fists, moving his feet slowly back and forth under the bed sheet, and running his fingers over the gauze that surrounded his stomach, arm, and patches of his face. He rubbed his eyes in frustration as he tried to make sense of what had happened. Someone called Bullet Tymer had been arrested, and now Bullet was being called by the name he used in Philadelphia. Furthermore, he was in a hospital, which almost certainly meant when Tad had attacked him, someone had stopped him before he could finish Bullet off. Ivy? Her husband? His head still swam when he saw the door open and Ivy, looking as unconcerned as ever, floated into the room.  
  
"Hello," she told him. She sat by his bed, her arms casually placed on the side of the mattress, smiling as if nothing in the world was the matter. "Guess you're wondering what's happened, Nick."  
  
A little irritated, Bullet moved his hands away from her as he stared hard at her, silent.  
  
Ivy smiled slightly. "I'll tell you everything you want to know." She placed one of her pale hands on his forehead and began gently stroking his hair. "Bullet?" She spoke very quietly, her face close to his. "Tad is dead." She waited for a reaction that never came. "He tripped and the knife he used on you lodged between his ribs. He had escaped from jail months ago, like we suspected, but it was his idea to use Loch to get the jewel. I think you know this man?"  
  
She held up a newspaper with a large photo of a man underneath a headline that ran "HEAD OF MASSIVE RING OF THIEVES FINALLY BROUGHT TO JUSTICE." Rupert Loch, the tall, thin, angry man who had forced Bullet to make a plan for the Jewel was shown being led into a black building, the scowl on his face leering down at the public.  
  
"Tad hired him and gave him all the information he had collected about you." Her voice had become soft and breathy again as she saw his temper start to flare. "The plan you created failed and the thief was caught. All he told the police was how to find Loch and that Bullet Tymer told him how to steal it. The police found Loch and they had enough evidence to arrest him as Bullet Tymer. He didn't have any alibis or proof he wasn't who he said he was and so he's being prosecuted. Bullet Tymer will be sent to jail."  
  
"So that's about it. Race and I brought you to the hospital four days ago, saying your name was Nick Deacy and you were my cousin." Her smile grew and she stroked Bullet's face. "No one's I.D.-ed you as Bullet, not the police, not any gangs, and no one's said Loch isn't called Bullet Tymer, so for all intents and purposes, you are officially no longer Bullet Tymer." She leaned down and whispered in his ear, "Do you hear that, Nick Deacy? You're free."  
  
For the first time in his life, Bullet was stunned speechless.  
  
"Jack! Jack!"  
  
Jack lifted his head at the sound of his name being called, followed closely by someone pounding on his door. He started to get up but the door burst open--the lock completely broken.  
  
"Rocky?" Jack asked, seeing the breathless little boy. "What the hell? I'm going to have to pay for that, you know!"  
  
"Jack!" Rocky shouted, ignoring what he had said. "Boots sent me! The new Kloppman left!"  
  
Jack gave an exasperated sigh and rolled his eyes. "What did I tell you about calling him that? Wait," he did a quick double take, "he left?"  
  
Rocky nodded, his cheeks still flushed. "He said he had enough of us, he didn't want to work with kids anyway. Boots has been in charge but he asked me to get you, to see if you can take over for a little while, at least tonight and tomorrow."  
  
"Work at the Lodging House?" Jack replied. "But I'm not supposed to- I mean, I don't know- I mean- me?"  
  
Rocky nodded again, hopping from foot to foot in his impatience. "C'mon!" Without waiting for a response, he pulled on Jack's hand, nearly yanking him out the door. "We have to run; Boots said he would lock the door at ten o'clock."  
  
Jack was spun off balance but managed to grab his jacket before Rocky gave his hand another yank and pulled his out of the apartment.  
  
"When did this happen?" Jack asked, racing down the street half in his jacket. "I thought things were going fine!"  
  
Rocky paused just long enough for Jack to notice his uncomfortable frown. "Ah," he said, speeding up again, "we'll talk more when we get to the Lodging House."  
  
When they arrived at the Lodging House, however, Jack was quickly enveloped by a crowd of the boys, most of which were taking this sudden lack of authority as a joke. Among the smiling faces, Boots pushed forward and grabbed Jack's jacket.  
  
"Jack! You're finally here!"  
  
"Boots?" Jack shrugged off the other boys and walked with Boots over to the side of the room. "What happened here? Rocky said that new guy left?"  
  
Glancing anxiously at the others, Boots nodded. "That's about all I can tell you. He just got fed up with us and left." Dropping his voice slightly, he pulled Jack closer. "But can you stay?"  
  
Jack sighed. "Boots..." Seeing Boots' hopeful expression, he sighed again. "Yeah, sure, I can stay the night. But I can't just live here, you know, I've got a life to get back to."  
  
"What life?"  
  
Jack glanced up quickly to see Spot sitting with a group of boys, all sharing similar bemused expressions. "What do you think you're doing here?"  
  
"One of the boys called him a couple of hours ago. It was his idea to get in touch with you," Boots explained, sheepishly frowning at Jack.  
  
Spot sauntered to Jack wearing his typical smug smile. "What do you think, Jack? You always told Kloppman his job was easy. Want to give it a shot?"  
  
Jack studied his friend for a moment. "Yeah... I'll stay tonight. But you know we really can't just walk in here. This is a city-appointed job. You need to take an exam and then they'll let you work here."  
  
"Yeah, sure," Spot agreed, "but no one's going to know that guy's gone for a while and until then, this place is ours." He grinned again, waiting for Jack to return the smile.  
  
"O...k..." Sticking out his hand, Jack smiled while the boys huddled around him cheered. "But only until someone from city hall shows up!"  
  
Jack heard from city hall next morning, not long after the boys had left. Bleary-eyed, he walked to the front door, expecting to find an absent- minded boy who had forgotten something, and saw two suited men with small stacks of papers in their hands.  
  
"We're from the Poor and Homeless Lodging Bureau."  
  
Ignoring the hated word "poor," Jack moved aside to let them enter.  
  
"And who are you?" one man asked.  
  
"Oh." Jack straightened up slightly. "My name's Jack Kelly. I watched over the boys here last night."  
  
The two men passed a suspicious look between them. "You seem a bit...young," one remarked.  
  
"Ah, well, my friend helped out also."  
  
As if on cue, Spot walked down the stairs, mop and bucket in hand. Jack, realizing the men in gray suits wouldn't appreciate newsie nicknames, quickly introduced him. "Alexander Conlon." He motioned to Spot to come downstairs and briefly explained who the men were.  
  
"Obviously," one said, "we're here to talk about what went on here last night. Mr. Rillo told us the boys were uncontrollable and wouldn't listen to him."  
  
"They listen to us," Spot jumped in. "I mean, we were once newsies, so we know the ropes and we know what to do. We could take over--they're wouldn't be any problems."  
  
Angry that Spot mentioned this so soon, Jack shot him a look before tentatively seeing what the gray men thought.  
  
They were looking at each other, as if they could communicate what they were thinking by a few nods and frowns. "I don't know," said one of the men. "We want this resolved, but you'll need to pass the Civil Service Exam to work for the city."  
  
"Well we can read," Spot said earnestly. "And we're smart. We'll pass it."  
  
"But until then?" Jack asked. "What happens to the Lodging House?"  
  
The men both shrugged. "It's no skin off my teeth if someone else takes over for a while, under the table."  
  
Hardly believing what he was hearing, Jack stared at them in disbelief. "We could keep working here then? Both of us?"  
  
"We can only pay one person. But you do with your check, if you want to split it, that's your business. It's not much, but you get lodgings for free and government health benefits for whoever collects the check."  
  
"But," the other man continued, "you only get paid after you get on the record. And that only happens after you pass the exam."  
  
Jack couldn't believe what he was hearing. All that stood between him and a lifelong job at the Lodging House was an exam anyone with half a mind could ace. He could work there, watch out for the other boys, and actually enjoy himself. Without stopping himself, he grinned at the gray men. "So when can I take it?"  
  
Race threw his arm around Ivy and watched her slowly breathe in her sleep. He liked these moments best, when everything was quiet and the two of them could lie in bed together, hearing the babies roll over or snuffle as they dreamed. He was thinking about their money, which was slowly running out, thanks to the decreased business at the track. Thoughts like those worried him, and he was relieved and surprised at the knocks coming from the front door. Checking on Ivy to be sure she was still asleep, Race slid out of bed and into a pair of pants on the dresser. He walked out of their room, past the couch Bullet was stretched out on.  
  
"Expecting someone?" Bullet asked, propping himself up on one elbow.  
  
Race put a finger to his lips and pointed back at the bedroom to let him know the triplets and Ivy were all sleeping. Cautiously, Race pulled back the door. A blonde girl with bobbed hair and very clear blue eyes stared at him, her pale skin luminous even in the dim light.  
  
"I-I got a letter," she stuttered, lifting the envelope. "I'm sorry to be here so late, but...is," she shivered suddenly and swallowed, "is N-Nick here?"  
  
"Kitty?" Bullet stood up.  
  
The girl looked sharply in his direction, her eyes slowly filling up with tears, her face screwed up with emotion. Bullet opened his arms and she ran into them, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck, covering his face with kisses in between breaths as the tears streamed down her face.  
  
"And I never even cried once!" she said, her voice muffled by his shirt. "They said you were dead and I could never cry!"  
  
Bullet closed his eyes, laughing as Kitty kissed his face over and over. He had forgotten his favorite things about her--her smell, her pretty face, her voice--and he had forgotten how happy she made him. He pulled away from her, putting his hands on her cheeks so they could look at each other in the face.  
  
"I missed you so much," Kitty whispered and she reached up to touch his face with a trembling finger.  
  
Bullet kissed her--her face, her forehead, her eyes, her lips. The fact that Race was still standing at the door and Ivy was sleeping just down the hall didn't bother him as he kissed Kitty again. He held her tightly, just to make sure he wasn't dreaming, that she was actually there.  
  
"How did you get here?" He was laughing, slowly leading her to the couch so they could sit down. His eyes were brighter than they had been for weeks as his smile stretched wider. "How could you know the one thing I wanted when you were 100 miles away?"  
  
"Your cousin," Kitty said slowly, showing him the letter.  
  
Bullet's eyes went wide as he recognized Ivy's handwriting. "My cousin wrote to have you come...?"  
  
From the bedroom came Alex's unmistakable high-pitched wail; obviously, he hadn't liked the sudden noises. Race, hearing the noise, rushed into the dark bedroom to keep him from waking anyone else up but stopped when he saw Ivy, still in her long white nightgown, swaying Alex back and forth on her shoulder.  
  
"Who's there?" she whispered in between hums to keep Alex quiet.  
  
Race shrugged and took Alex from her arms. "Bullet's friend, Kitty." He looked at her sharply over Alex's head. "Did you write to her?"  
  
A look of dawning comprehension appeared on Ivy's face and without a word she hurried into the over room, eager to see Bullet's girlfriend.  
  
"-I came to and that's when the doctors could get some information out of me," Bullet was saying.  
  
Ivy recognized the story they had both come up with--that Bullet had been somehow injured the first days after his arrival in New York and had spent the better part of a year in a New York hospital, slipping in and out of a coma and without any identification on him.  
  
"I'm sorry," Bullet said, his voice hushed and sincere. He reached out a hand and cupped Kitty's cheek in his fingers. Ivy, still standing unnoticed in the shadows of the hallway, watched as Kitty closed her eyes and slipped her hand into his.  
  
Upon opening her eyes a moment later, Kitty noticed Ivy and tilted her head. "Are you, ah, Ivy?"  
  
"Oh," Ivy said, startled, "yes. Hello. You must be Kitty." She stopped twisting her wedding ring around her finger, a nervous habit she'd developed, and took a few quick steps towards the couch where Bullet and Kitty sat. She forced her eyes to study Kitty and not glance down to read Bullet's expression, although she spent most of her time wondering what it might be.  
  
On closer inspection, she guessed Kitty wasn't the typical girl Bullet used to date--the kind that were fiercely beautiful and didn't care that Bullet wasn't in for much more than a fling. Kitty was pretty--small and childlike with her tiny frame and delicate features. She moved slowly and carefully, like a dancer, and in the dark her pale skin shone ivory-white, making her eyes stand out like large, aquamarine marbles. She looked too innocent to be dating someone like Bullet; Ivy couldn't help frowning uncomfortably at that thought.  
  
"I'll get you a glass of water, Kit, all right?" Bullet said.  
  
As he walked past her, Ivy gave him a suspicious look that Bullet returned with an embarrassed shrug. He was acting differently. The Bullet Ivy knew would never act so nice. But then, she thought caustically, this is Nick, not Bullet.  
  
"I'm sorry," Kitty said abruptly. "I'm so sorry I just appeared on your doorstep like this." She turned her face to see Bullet's back as he reached into a cupboard for a glass. "But it's been a year since I've seen Nick and as soon as I heard where he was..." She trailed off, still watching Bullet. "I was so worried. It's not like him to just disappear." She lowered her head slightly, her voice deep and ragged.  
  
Ivy awkwardly smiled back. She felt a rush of pity towards Kitty; the man Kitty was in love with didn't exist and she had no idea.  
  
"You'll stay here tonight, then?" Ivy asked.  
  
Kitty nodded. "Just tonight," she said, looking at Bullet. "I have to get back tomorrow."  
  
"You know I can't leave right away. Not for a few days," Bullet said gently, holding her hand.  
  
She nodded again.  
  
"Ah, Nick was on the couch," Ivy interrupted, aware of the quiet moment she was intruding upon, "but I'm sure he wouldn't mind the floor." She glanced over at the hallway leading to her bedroom and saw Race standing there with Alex over his shoulder. "My husband can help you get some clothes." She walked over to Race and took Alex from his arms, asking him silently to distract Kitty so she could have a word with Bullet.  
  
"Right," Race said, eyeing Ivy oddly. "C'mon Kitty."  
  
When the door of her bedroom closed and Ivy and Bullet were alone, Ivy scowled deeper and rolled her eyes at Bullet.  
  
"What?" Bullet demanded. "You brought her here, now are you angry she came?" He rose to his feet, his expression now matching hers.  
  
"Do you love her?" Ivy asked suddenly. "I saw you kissing on the couch and you can tell she loves you--it's written all over her face." As she spoke she made violent, forceful gestures, her hands balled into tense fists.  
  
"I don't have to tell you," Bullet shot back, "but yes, I love her."  
  
Ivy rolled her eyes again.  
  
Bullet's eyes narrowed in anger. "What does it matter to you?"  
  
"I'm not going to sit and watch you lie to her like that. You hurt her badly by leaving her. How could you lie and pretend nothing is wrong?"  
  
"You brought her here." Bullet clenched and unclenched his jaw, his eyes fixed on Ivy. "I didn't expect her to walk through the door in the middle of the night. What business is it of yours to mess around with-"  
  
He was suddenly interrupted as Kitty and Race walked back into the room. Kitty held one of Ivy's nightgowns over her arm and was laughing at something Race had just said.  
  
"Thank you so much for letting me stay here," Kitty said to Ivy.  
  
Again Ivy was hit with Kitty's painful innocence and she forced a painful smile. "Please, don't mention it." She kept her eyes on Kitty, resolutely not looking at Bullet, and started to walk backwards in the direction of her room. "I'll leave you two alone, ah, good-night." She turned suddenly and caught Race's confused expression.  
  
"I like her," Race said, once they were back in their room. "She's very nice. She knew what to do when Alex started crying. She said she used to help her sister. Her sister has three kids."  
  
Ivy barely nodded; her mind was still on Bullet. At the sound of a knock on her bedroom door, she turned and motioned for Race to stay where he was. "Yes?" She wasn't surprised to see Bullet standing in the hallway with a look of annoyance on his face.  
  
"If you're rude to her-"  
  
"Enough," Ivy snapped, narrowing her eyes. "We'll talk about this later." She didn't wait for Bullet to reply as she shut the door and walked back to bed.  
  
"What was-"  
  
"We'll talk later, too." Ivy said to Race. "Let's get some sleep." Although she could tell Race wasn't pleased, she slid back into bed and pulled the covers over her, listening in vain to the murmurs of conversation filtering in through her bedroom door.  
  
Ivy hadn't run like this for months. She could tell it had been months because the good feeling of stretching out her legs was replaced with shoots of fatigue only a few blocks from her apartment. She moved as fast as she could in the busy streets, dodging crowds and venders, racing uptown to New York's famous Grand Central Station.  
  
Pushing through the glass doors, she didn't even pause to admire the fantastically large, high ceiling, nor was she struck by the range of people, from beggars and peddlers to high class businessmen. She only had eyes for one person--tall and handsome and distinguishable from a distance by his distinct, confidant walk.  
  
Afraid she would lose him in the thickening crowd, Ivy cupped her mouth and shouted out his permanent alias.  
  
Bullet turned, his eyes all-searching, his mouth twitching into a smile when he saw her, flushed and breathing hard, running towards him. He dropped his bag to the floor and without slowing Ivy flowed into his arms, holding him tightly, eyes pressed closed.  
  
"You didn't want to say good-bye?" She pulled back, looking closely at his face. "I'll probably never see you again."  
  
Gently, Bullet took her arms off his shoulders and pressed her hands together. He let go of her hands but kept his eyes cast down. "I don't want to see you. Ever." He grimaced slightly and glanced at her. and find me, or write to me, or even think about me. Forget everything." He made a motion to leave but Ivy held out a hand.  
  
"Wait. No, I can't." She paused. "Not without an explanation."  
  
Bullet frowned, sighed, shifted his weight between his feet. Suddenly, he leaned in closer so their faces were inches away. "Bullet is dead. My name is Nick now and I have a life for me, but not if someone miles away is waiting on a phantom." Seeing the confusion on her face he frowned again. "You don't want me. You want a ghost. Every time you go looking for Bullet and find Nick, it's going to kill you. I-" He stopped, glancing at Ivy's expression. "I should know."  
  
Ivy's expression softened and her lips parted in a look of comprehension. "All this time, you were expecting Ebby."  
  
"From the second I heard about you I loved you. A girl thief! Good enough to get her name in the papers! I had dreams about a beautiful girl who could steal, really steal, who could fight and do everything the guys could do, who was perfect. And then I had you! My dark little beauty... When you left I would wait under your windows, watch you from street corners. It was...murder. That wild creature who haunted my dreams suffocating, being killed by a complacent housewife I hardly recognized. I used to fantasize about getting her back, but I knew it was too late." He turned away, scraping his fingernails over his scalp in frustration. "When I grabbed you, when you struggled, I couldn't believe it! You tried to kick me! Kick. Me. How many times had I told you? Never, never--it's a waste of energy and won't get you anything! I could feel you panic in my arms--a girl who I used to think was cool as ice and you were falling to pieces. A girl I used to think could see the future she had reflexes so fast and you were paralyzed, caught so off guard I suddenly had the idea that I was holding your life in my hands. And it hurt. Seeing you like that. I gave up all my dreams about getting my Ebby back, until the night you came to me, to ask for your money. The night I kissed you." His fingers curled and twitched on their own, his anger was rising inside of him and he turned away from her with his shoulders hunched and brooding.  
  
Ivy stared down at the floor, her fingers twisting on their own, her breaths even and measured.  
  
"You know..."  
  
She lifted her head sharply at his words.  
  
"There's still a part of me saying it's not too late." He glanced at her over his shoulder. "Leave here together and go away. I used to have it planned. A small house on a cliff in Bermuda, you and me, living off the money we made. No responsibilities, no families, no past."  
  
"It's too late." As soon as she said the words, Ivy was surprised at herself, because, as much as she was trying to deny it, part of her wanted to say to him, "All right, let's do it."  
  
Bullet paused, then nodded and turned to face her. "You understand now. You're different and I'm different and there's no going back. As much as I want to see Ebby once more..."  
  
"You'd better hurry," Ivy interrupted. "Or you might miss your train. And Kitty is waiting."  
  
He looked weary again, older, and Ivy realized suddenly that when he got onto his train he would change his expression, become Nick Deacy, let go of Bullet for the last time.  
  
"I'm going to tell her everything." He looked away at the crowd rushing past. "I want to marry her and be a part of all that." He waved vaguely at the people. "Be normal."  
  
Ivy didn't respond. She knew what he meant.  
  
"Good-bye," he said quietly, looking not at her but through her. He held out his hand.  
  
"Bye," she replied, taking it without looking at it. Her stomach fell as he held her hand, weakly and passively. Their hands both dropped to their sides and Ivy wondered if that's how he would do it--break away from her as easily as he had ended their handshake. She smiled, but it felt unreal, plastic and when she wanted to say one last thing he turned, picked up his bag, and walked away.  
  
Watching him go, Ivy sighed shortly, frustrated, angry, and sad. The last time they had tried to say good-bye it hadn't gone better and she felt a familiar feeling of things left undone and words unsaid. Why did they always have to leave so abruptly?  
  
Tired of her thoughts of Bullet, she picked up her feet and headed to the doors, focusing on her children and husband. They would be waiting for her and Race would want to know where she had been. Saying good-bye to Bullet, she could say, good-bye forever.  
  
Her hand on the door now she started to push forward into the bright sunlight of the outside when she was suddenly pulled back. She had enough time to see his eyes, bright like they hadn't been for days, and feel his arms clasp around her waist and neck before a second-long pause and he kissed her.  
  
She was Ebby again, standing illuminated in the sunlight, being held by Bullet. When he finally let her go, he twisted his head to the side of her face, kissed her temple.  
  
"That was from Bullet," he whispered. He pulled around to look into her eyes, waited for her to smile, and flashed her a final grin before dashing away down the stairs and into the crowd.  
  
She could let him go now. Smiling, she shrugged to herself, put her hands in her pockets, and leaned her weight against the glass doors to push them open. She squinted into the sunlight and took a deep breath. "Bye Bullet," she said to herself. "Bye Ebby."  
  
It was Wednesday afternoon, which meant Race could be found on the east track, working with Sabe and her jockey, Brian Jessop.  
  
"Race, it's no use," Jessop said from Sabe's back. "She's a fighter, but with another horse next to her she won't listen to me, won't let me pull her back."  
  
"Well, she's gotta learn," Race replied, scratching his head. "We can't have her wasting all her energy like that." He frowned. "Let me ride her for a minute." He moved aside to let Jessop dismount. "Can you get out Carino? I want to see her fight."  
  
"Yeah, sure," Jessop answered. He stood still a moment to watch Race swing himself into the saddle before jogging to the stables and returning with a large white and gray horse. "Want me to yank him back?" he asked once in the saddle.  
  
Race shook his head and kicked Sabe to get her moving. "Keep him level with her. When I tell you, gun him for all he's worth."  
  
"Beat her?" Jessop asked incredulously.  
  
Race replied with a laugh. "Not if I can help it."  
  
The ground was soft from the countless horses who had already had their runs. Once both horses were in place, Race called to his friend Mickey to ring the starting bell. Sabe automatically leapt forward and Race reacted in a split second to her fluid movements. He rarely rode the horses at top speed, leaving that up to the lighter, more adept jockeys, but now he felt that Sabe, instinctively knowing he was in the saddle, might listen to him and let him pull her back.  
  
Race could feel Sabe was stretching forward, the way she did whenever another horse ran next to her. She was trying to pass Jessop and Carino, at the same time expending her energy. Although her nose pushed forward, Race pulled on the reins slightly and pushed back in the stirrups. For a second, he felt what Jessop had said--the smooth action of Sade's actions didn't slow. Almost immediately after, however, she slackened her pace and Carino took the lead. Race watched as Jessop slowed as well until both horses were nose and nose again. Twice more he slowed her down before he was satisfied. Grinning, Race glanced over at Jessop and passed the signal for Jessop to run at top speed. He nodded and Carino edged forward. Race waited a moment before suddenly leaning forward and giving Sabe the signal to go.  
  
"C'mon baby," he urged her, grinning.  
  
Much as he had hoped, Sabe was pushing forward and seemed to be ignoring Carino. Far from picking a fight with him for the lead, she was just running as fast as she could, putting more energy into running than fighting, letting each step put her more and more into the lead.  
  
Thirty seconds later, Race raised his arm to signal Jessop to stop. They pulled their horses to a walk and they turned to each other with identical smiles.  
  
"Guess she listened that time," Jessop laughed, patting Carino on the side of the neck as he tossed his head in the air.  
  
Race laughed, too. "Sure did. Here, let's switch and see if she'll do it again." He trotted Sabe to the wall and slid off her.  
  
"Uh-oh," said Jessop. "Look who's here." He was looking back into the stands where a few spectators were watching. An impatient-looking man in a finely-tailored overcoat and fedora raised his hand over his head and waved to Race. Race slowly raised his in response, glad he was far away enough so that the man couldn't see Race's disappointed expression. As much as he loved Sabe, he disliked Mr. Gentl, who was often so impatient to make sure Sabe won he interfered with her training.  
  
"I'd better go see what he wants," Race said sullenly. "Hey." He turned to Jessop. "You don't know what this is about, do you?"  
  
Jessop shrugged. "The track is losing money, probably it'll go under in a few weeks. It's my guess Gentl wants to get Sabe out early, maybe to a farm down south. Probably he'll want her to do some circuits and run all the East Coast races."  
  
"Great," Race muttered. "I don't even know how to travel the circuits." With the distinct feeling he was about to be fired, Race shoved his hands into his pockets and headed to the stands and Gentl.  
  
Ivy took out her key as she maneuvered Patch onto her other shoulder. Moving slowly so as not to wake him, Ivy opened the door of the apartment and walked inside.  
  
"Have a nice walk?" Mae asked, smiling.  
  
Ivy smiled back as Mae took Patch from her arms. "Have a nice watch?"  
  
Mae cooed to Patch and swayed slightly. "Sure. I'm never having kids, but sure."  
  
Laughing, skipping out of her jacket, Ivy protested, "Do you mean my kids are misbehaving?"  
  
Mae rolled her eyes and set Patch down in the crib with Rosie and Alex. "Please. They're, what, 1 month old?" She shook her head at the sleeping babies. "Rosie was colicky and Alex hated his lunch... Look at them...so peaceful...so deceiving." She turned to Ivy. "Same time tomorrow?"  
  
Ivy laughed and nodded. She waved good-bye to her friend and bent down to kiss Rosie and Alex. As she adjusted the triplets' blanket, the front door swung open and Race walked in.  
  
"Evening doll," he said, not even pausing to take off his jacket before kissing her.  
  
"Hi," Ivy replied.  
  
"I have news," Race announced. "Good and bad. Which do you want first?" He sat down at the table with his feet up and watched her, a strange smile on his face.  
  
"Bad," Ivy decided, sitting across from him. "Then the good news will sound better."  
  
Race scrunched his nose. "The bad doesn't make sense without the good. I'll just tell you the good first."  
  
Ivy rolled her eyes, noticed Race was watching, and flashed him a toothy grin. "Shoot."  
  
Passing her an odd look, Race shook his head and sat up. "Anyway... Mr. Gentl, Sabe's owner, talked to me about training Sabe only, being exclusive for her." He looked at her, beaming proudly. "He thinks Sabe has what it takes to go big time and he wants me to get her there."  
  
"Oh that's wonderful!" Ivy crooned, walking around the table to give him a hug and kiss. "Wait...what's the bad news?"  
  
Race swung around in his chair to face her and held her hands, his smile gone. "We leave New York."  
  
"Leave?"  
  
"Gentl owns a ranch in Pennsylvania. Small town, lots of fields, woods. A three-story house for us, half a mile to the running track."  
  
"Our own house..."  
  
"We wouldn't have to pay a nickel. Gentl said it's just this old house tacked onto the ranch; no one uses it and it's ours if we want it."  
  
He was looking at her very carefully, trying to decipher her blank look.  
  
"There's another catch..." he said softly. "Gentl wants Sabe at the top of the game, which means for a couple of months out of the year we'll be running East Coast circuits."  
  
Ivy reacted, finally--her features turned hard and grim and she looked as though she were about to shake her head firmly. "No way, Race, I don't want you to be gone."  
  
"Wait, just listen." He smiled slightly to test her and she finally frowned and nodded. "This summer is shot as far as running the circuit, so we don't run her winter and fall we work on training her hard at the track and I'm home every day. Next spring we start traveling and that'll go on the rest of the summer. But," he put up a finger to stop her from saying something, "the kids will be a year older and when we travel we take them with us-- they can grow up in a million places, see a million things. Then, when winter comes we're home for good."  
  
"Until next spring when it happens all over again," Ivy finished glumly.  
  
"Nope." Race's grin spread. "Almost. Oh, actually, no, not even close." He squeezed her hand tightly. "Next spring we stay. Gentl buys a few ponies and I train them. Ponies. Ponies who stay at the ranch."  
  
"Not Sabe?" Ivy's eyebrows slid up.  
  
"Sabe? She'll be an old mare then, racing days over, momma days just starting. Probably I'll be training her kids." He smiled and looked for her answer. "So?"  
  
Ivy sighed reluctantly to hide her smile. "Our own house...the kids growing up in a small town instead of the monster of all cities...traveling a little." She laughed. "Sounds wonderful," she purred.  
  
"Ha!" Race jumped to his feet and pulled Ivy to hers. "Ah, knew you would love it." He put an arm around her and danced dramatically, singing as Ivy laughed happily. "What do you say to a huge going away party? Say so long in style."  
  
"Sounds good." Ivy half-grinned. "Why don't you cook?"  
  
"Uh, sure. But do you think everyone will like coffee rinds and burnt toast?"  
  
They both laughed at his silly joke; Ivy felt like she was in a dream. As much as she loved the city, she didn't like worrying so much about her children--if they would grow up playing in alleys, going to the dark, sunless school on the corner, becoming newsies and living the life Race and she went through. A house in the country with a family was the dream Ivy held onto as a child. That Race made it come true so easily made her lighthearted smile grow.  
  
"I love you," she said softly.  
  
"Oh good," Race replied, pleased, "that's good to hear." He leaned in and kissed her, over and over until they both laughed out loud.  
  
Race smiled to see all of his friends in one place. These people had been family to him for most of his life and he wasn't looking forward to saying good-bye. Assembled together in Race and Ivy's apartment, Jack Jon, Spot, Mush and their dates had already finished the dinner Mae and Ivy had prepared and were lounging about, comfortably talking.  
  
"She left?" Ivy was asking Mae.  
  
Taking a sip from her glass, Mae nodded with enthusiasm and smiled. "She said she'd had enough of Mush and his wildness and she just vanished. I think she's gone west somewhere. Anyway, when I stopped by her apartment, everything was gone."  
  
In the corner, Jon, Mush, and Spot sat talking and watching Elena, who was striking up a conversation with Jack.  
  
"I like her, Spot," Jon said, smiling. "Really nice girl."  
  
"Yeah," Mush agreed. "Pretty, too. You two dating?"  
  
A small smile playing on his lips, Spot shrugged. "I like her, a lot. And she'd said she was thinking of quitting selling papers, so, maybe, I'm going to ask if she wants to come to the Lodging house, get a job cooking or something."  
  
As he spoke, Jack broke his conversation with her to grin at Spot. Taking this as a vote of confidence in Elena, Spot returned the grin and continued talking with the others.  
  
"So wait," Jack said to Elena. "You girls bring in five dollars a week each? That's amazing! How did you manage that?"  
  
"We have a big sister-little sister program," Elena replied, blushing at his compliment. "Older girls work with younger girls--the older girls can draw more buyers with the younger girls and the younger girls get the benefit of the older girls' experience."  
  
Impressed, Jack smiled and made a mental note to have Boots talk with Elena.  
  
Rosie's crying from the crib off to the side of the room suddenly broke the chatter. Almost at once, all three babies were crying loudly, and Ivy and Mae, closest to the crib, hurried over to quiet them. Elena politely excused herself from Jack, joined Ivy and Mae, and was promptly handed Patch, the easiest going of the babies, to calm down.  
  
Once it was quiet again and silence filled the room, Race cleared his throat and called for everyone's attention.  
  
"Ivy and I invited you here to tell you something important," he shouted.  
  
"She's not pregnant again, is she?" Spot called out.  
  
The room broke out into laughter, but was quieted at Race's serious expression.  
  
"Guess I can't hold off telling you for long," he said. He took a deep breath and glanced at Ivy. "I've been offered a job training Sabe in Pennsylvania, and I've taken it. Ivy and I will be moving by the end of the week."  
  
They all stared at him in stunned silence.  
  
"You can't leave!" Much exclaimed.  
  
"You're one to talk," muttered Spot, looking sullen and cross.  
  
"When did you decide this?" Jon asked, biting his lip.  
  
"A few days ago," Ivy confessed. "We waited to tell you all together."  
  
"And say good-bye all at once," Spot added. He still appeared very annoyed at the news.  
  
Race frowned, not enjoying the sudden change in atmosphere of the group. "Wait, everyone." He raised his hands and the rippled of murmurs settled down. "I know this is last-minute, but all of you are our family." He took a few steps to stand next to Ivy and gently put his arm around her waist. "Pretty soon, we'll all be going separate ways--Ivy and me moving is just the beginning. This is the last time we'll all be living close to each other, the last time we can come together as neighbors, New Yorkers. We brought you here to tell you out news, sure, but we also brought you here to say good-bye to what our lives used to be."  
  
His words had a profound impact on the group. They silently shifted their weight or turned their glasses in their hands as they thought about what Race had said.  
  
"So do we have to say good-bye now?" Mush asked, finally breaking the silence with his omni-present grin.  
  
Race shrugged and smiled back. "Now's as good a time as ever."  
  
He walked to the front of the room and gave Race a hug. "Maybe Meredith and I will settle down near you guys," he said.  
  
"And where is the happy bride?" Race shot back, laughing.  
  
Mush grew red and mumbled something through a laugh. He turned and kissed Ivy on the cheek. "You turned out to be a pretty great mom, huh?" He hugged and kissed her again before stepped off to the side.  
  
"Guess it's my turn," Jack said next, shrugging and walking forward. "Race." He paused to put a hand on his shoulder. "You've been like a brother to me, know that? Even though you'll be miles away, don't forget I'll always be there to watch out for you." He softened his serious tone with smile. "But it'll be a hell of a commute, so try to take care of yourself." Laughing, he looked at Ivy. "Ivy, Ivy, Ivy... All that time I spent trying to convince Race you were bad news and I couldn't be more wrong." He gave her a careful hug and softly kissed her cheek and the top of Rosie's head.  
  
"Well then..." Jon walked forward from the back of the room to stand in front of Race. Automatically, Race put out his hand, but Jon only smiled and pushed it away. "I'm afraid just a handshake isn't going to do it." He embraced Race, kissing him on both cheeks. "Take care of yourself."  
  
Race was looking suddenly very sad to say good-bye; his smiled faltered as he wiped his eye quickly.  
  
"Ivy." Jon didn't try to ignore Ivy's tears through her smile. "Ah, it's ok to cry for once," he said, touching a tear as it rolled down her cheek. He kissed her forehead and held her a moment in a one-armed hug. "I'm going to miss you so much."  
  
Mae had followed him up after handing Alex to Jack. She hugged Race and stood in front of Ivy a moment, looking over her face as if to memorize it. "Oh honey," she said, "you'd better put Rosie down for this."  
  
Ivy obliged and handed her gently to Race. Her face puffy and red from trying to hold back tears, Mae took one final look at Ivy before pulling her into a tight hug,  
  
"I thought our kids would grow up together!" Mae said, choking on tears.  
  
Laughing, but still touched at her sentiment, Ivy smiled and wiped Mae's cheek. "I'll miss having you around to laugh with."  
  
Mae was unable to say anything; she kissed Ivy's cheek in a final good-bye, squeezed her hand, and moved to stand next to Jon.  
  
Elena shook Ivy and Race's hands, smiling warmly and wishing them luck. When she had finished, however, Ivy looked to see Spot was nowhere to be found.  
  
Although slightly put off by this, Race thanked his friends for coming. "We'll have the house ready in a few weeks, so you can all visit then." He was answered with his friends' grins, pats on the back, and promises of parties in the future.  
  
As they left, their good-byes murmured and mingled together.  
  
"If you need some help with the kids, moving and all, I can lend a hand."  
  
"Thanks Jack, I'll remember that."  
  
"Do you know where Spot got off to?"  
  
"Oh, well he said he needed to step outside and maybe wouldn't be coming back. I figured I'd just walk myself home."  
  
"Oh Elena, don't be silly. Jon and I can walk you back--it's right on the way."  
  
Slowly people filed out of the tiny apartment, leaving only Ivy, Race, and the babies. Still put off that Spot had left without a good-bye, Ivy told Race she was going to go up to the roof for some air.  
  
Although it was late spring, Ivy shivered slightly in her thin dress as she climbed the fire escape to the roof. She sighed happily when she looked out over the city and waved to a neighbor n the roof across the street.  
  
"Ivy?"  
  
She turned at Spot's voice. "I didn't know you were up here."  
  
Laughing bitterly, he sauntered over to her and dropped his cigarette. "Why would you?"  
  
When he didn't speak for a minute, Ivy looked away.  
  
"I figured," Spot said slowly, "if I didn't say good-bye, there wouldn't be that--finality. Not 'so long' or 'see you soon' but goo-oo-d-by-ye... So final."  
  
"But Spot, we will see you again."  
  
"Maybe... Once or twice a year. But you'll be busy with the kids and I've got to take care of the Lodging House... You know, you and Race mean a lot to me. If you two leave, what's next?"  
  
Ivy was surprised at Spot's abandon of his typically tight-lipped demeanor. She reached over to him and put her arm around his shoulders so their heads rested against each other.  
  
"I don't know," she said quietly, gazing out at the city. "People run off, they go away, but friends, family, they never really leave you. I'll be missing you and thinking of you every day. Will you think of me?"  
  
Spot frowned and shrugged out of Ivy's hold. "Ah, yeah, sure." He took a step away from her and looked at her wryly. "You know...how I feel about you, don't you?"  
  
Ivy smiled. "Yeah." Her expression turned serious. "But you know, it's ok to say good-bye sometimes. Sometimes it's good that things change."  
  
"Yeah," Spot said, but idly, as if he hadn't heard her.  
  
"Good-bye Spot," Ivy said softly.  
  
Spot paused. "See you later." He quickly pushed past her, down the fire escape and off into the spring night.  
  
Out through the window Ivy, Race, and Jack watched Spot and Elena wave good- bye. They had come to see the three off while Jon filled in at the Lodging House. As the trian sped up, the skyline of the city smoothly swept in and out of view, blocked now and then by a rush of the green leaves of trees. Race placed his arm around Ivy's shoulders as they settled into their seat.  
  
"There she goes," he said, a tinge of nostalgia and sadness in his voice. "Good-bye New York City." He waited for a minute for Ivy to say something but she only glanced up and kissed him, then looked back at the three sleeping babies on the seat across from them and their dozing babysitter leaning one hand over Patch's crib.  
  
She thought of the strange farewell Spot had given her: wordlessly, he hugged her and slipped something hard into her pocket. She shifted her weight suddenly and felt it jab her hard in her stomach. Slowly, she pulled it out, read the message, and smiled.  
  
Race was mumbling a song under his breath as he faintly tapped out a beat on Ivy's arm. It was one of Tad's songs and as Race sang, Ivy's thoughts wandered through the city to a small, unnoticed grave in a corner of the city-owned cemetery. Tad was gone now, for good, so Ivy's thoughts traveled further until she reached the Lodging House. Spot and Elena wouldn't be back yet, but she could imagine Jon there, making jokes with the boys he knew and getting to know the ones he didn't while Mae cooked the only food she knew how to make--hot and filling. In a few days things would be back to normal there, with Spot and Jack sharing the work and Elena keeping them all cleaned and fed. Things were back to normal, too, in Brooklyn and the other boroughs. Jag was done with being a newsie, Brooklyn was safe, things were, for now, at peace.  
  
The sky out her window was getting darker as she suddenly thought of the Gang's old building. It was bulldozed now, and the tall, dark, empty building Ivy had spent a few years of her life in had literally disappeared, along with the last remaining traces of Bullet's infamous ring of thieves. Thinking of the Gang made her think of Bullet, in Philadelphia. He wouldn't know where she was now, except--and Ivy stopped her thoughts with a smile. She had almost thought that of course Bullet would know these things but then she remembered that he wasn't Bullet Tymer anymore. He was Nick Deacy, college student and all-around nice guy, already free of what he had been and done in New York.  
  
Ivy felt the rapid rock of the train, swaying her as she leaned deeper into Race's shoulder. The sun had almost set now, although Ivy wouldn't see it, looking east at the city, and the sky above the black buildings was shot through with golds and purples.  
  
Ivy's thoughts whipped past her as quickly as the trees going by her window. Walking as a baby with Charlie, who had raised her and played with her in Central Park until he was gone and she had to leave, and left a child but returned something different, a child twisted into an adult who had to steal, first alone, wary, then with Bullet, until she was so fed up she had to get out, get out right away and meet Race, turn every day into the complete bliss of a person in love, but still grow up, until they were married, alone at last, until the babies came and Ivy knew for the first time what it meant to love something so much it hurt, hurt in a good way, the same way she was hurt to leave this place, after it had given her so much--a new life, a husband, wonderful friends, beautiful children, a home. Ivy leaned forward just enough so as not to disturb Race. She could still feel his breath against her ear as he sang and she placed one small, hot hand against the cool glass of the window. She waited until there was a gap large enough in the trees to see the entire skyline before bringing her face close to the glass.  
  
Ivy smiled.  
  
"Good-bye," she called, her voice hushed, and watched the train turn away from the city as she settled down into her husband's arms.  
  
"Good-bye." 


End file.
